ice,  •  75  Cents. 

I 

THE 

LIVING  AUTHOKS 

AMERICA. 


FIRST  SERIES — COMPRISING 

Cooper,  Emerson, . 

Willis,  Poe, 

Longfellow,  Prescott, 

Bryant,  Halleck, 

Dana,  Sparks, 

Mrs.  Osgood,  Mrs.  Kirklaud, 
Margaret  Puller. 


BY 

THOMAS   POWELL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LIVING  AUTHORS  OF  ENGLAND,"  &c. 


N  EW    YO  RK: 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEND,  222  BROADWAY. 
1850. 


THE 


LIVING  AUTHORS   OF  AMERICA. 


THE 


LIVING      AUTHORS 


OF 


AMERICA, 


BY 

THOMAS    POWELL, 

AUTHOR     OF     "  THE     LIVING     AUTHORS     OF     ENGLAND,' 
&c.,  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 
STRINGER     AND     TOWNSEND, 

222   BROADWAY. 

1850. 


LOAN  STACK 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEND, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of.  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


I 


TO 

R.    E.    MOUNT,    JR., 

AND 

JOHN     ANDREW,    ESQRS 

THIS 
VOLUME     IS     DEDICATED 


577 


0  0  N  T  E  S  T  S 


PAOK 

JAMES    FEN  [MORE   COOPER 9 

BALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 49 

NATHANIEL    PARKER    WILLIS 78 

EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 108 

HENRV    WADS  WORTH    LONGFELLOW         .......  135 

WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT 169 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 189 

FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 222 

RICHARD    HENRY    DANA 248 

FRANCES    SARGENT   OSGOOD              .......  276 

S.    MARGARET    FULLER .            .  287 

MRS.    C.    M.    KIRKLAND 319 

JARED    SPARKS   .            ,  355 


INTRODUCTION. 


ACCUSTOMED  for  many  years  to  associate  with  the  most  dis 
tinguished  men  in  English  literature,  the  conclusions  we  have 
formed  upon  various  subjects  may  rather  be  considered  theirs 
than  our  own. 

Youth  is  so  imitative  that  we  often  become  the  unconscious 
plagiarists  of  others,  even  of  men  whom  we  secretly  despise, 
and  whose  decision  we  should  refuse  to  accept,  when  the  truth 
is  that  we  ourselves  are  uttering  their  sentiments,  modified  by 
our  own  egotism. 

The  origin  of  every  thought  is  so  obscure,  that  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  man  living  can  claim  the  individuality  of 
his  opinions,  however  firmly  he  may  exclusively  consider  them 
his  own. 

American  literature  has  of  late  years  been  a  favorite  subject 
of  discussion  with  the  critical  circles  of  London,  and  the  works 
of  the  best  authors  of  the  Great  Republic  are  as  familiar  to  the 
well-informed  classes  of  England  as  the  writings  of  Words 
worth,  Coleridge,  and  their  contemporaries,  to  the  enlightened 
Americans.  The  alacrity  with  which  an  English  audience  wel 
comes  an  author  or  a  lecturer  from  the  New  World  is  too  well 

1 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

known  to  need  any  proof:  it  has  been  acknowledged  openly, 
since  his  return  from  the  Fatherland,  by  one  of  the  most  illus 
trious  of  republicans,  the  poet  and  philosopher  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson. 

We  do  not  seek  by  this  plea  to  shelter  ourselves,  or  to 
expect  that  it  will  secure  to  the  views  set  forth  in  this  book  any 
deference  not  justly  due  to  the  opinions  themselves  ;  we  merely 
make  this  avowal  to  account  for  the  fact  of  our  having  pre 
sented  these  critical  judgments  to  the  public.  With  regard  to 
the  manner,  we  have  not  aimed  at  anything  beyond  a  conver 
sational  style,  which  has  no  pretension  to  challenge  comparison 
with  a  professed  author. 

Independently  of  this  consideration,  we  may,  perhaps,  be  per 
mitted  to  state  that  our  Poems  and  Plays  have  been  well 
received  by  the  English  public,  and  favorably  reviewed  in  the 
leading  journals  of  London,  among  others  by  the  New  Quarterly, 
Church  of  England  Quarterly,  Athenaeum,  &c.  We  may  like 
wise  refer  to  the  publication  of  "Chaucer  Modernized,"  in 
which  undertaking  our  friends  Wordsworth,  Leigh  Hunt,  Home, 
<fcc.,  cheerfully  allowed  us  to  partake. 

We  think  it  due  to  the  American  public  to  make  this  state 
ment,  lest  we  should  be  accused  of  a  certain  presumption  in 
thus  critically  considering  the  Authors  of  America.  It  must, 
however,  be  borne  in  mind,  that  possibly  an  Englishman  fami 
liar  with  their  writings,  is  capable  of  arriving  at  a  far  juster 
estimate  of  their  relative  merits,  than  one  of  their  own  country 
men  who  may  be  swayed  by  personal  or  political  bias. 

Removed  from  this  disturbing  influence,  he  becomes  better 


INTRODUCTION.  VII 

qualified  to  sum  up  impartially  the  excellences  or  defects  of 
an  author  than  one  who  has  been  himself  mixed  up  with 
him. 

The  causes  which  operate  on  us  are  so  subtle,  that  it  is 
utterly  impossible  to  come  in  contact  with  men  without  being 
influenced  one  way  or  the  other  by  this  personal  familiarity  : 
and  when  to  this  is  added  the  fact  of  political  or  religious  agree 
ment  or  disagreement,  the  author  is  placed  under  a  medium 
which  either  distorts  or  flatters. 

We  are  aware  it  may  be  urged  by  some  narrow-minded  per 
sons  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  national  prejudice  which  is 
too  often  taken  for  granted,  may  likewise  prove  an  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  an  impartial  judgment ;  but  the  advancing  libe 
rality  of  the  age  will  render  this  the  opinion  of  a  very  small 
class,  and  we  have  only  noticed  the  possibility  of  such  a  charge, 
to  show  that  it  has  not  escaped  our  attention,  and  to  state  that 
our  volume  will  effectually  refute  such  a  suspicion. 

We  presume  that  the  right  to  give  an  opinion  cannot  be 
disputed,  seeing  that  it  is  assumed  and  exercised  by  every 
newspaper  critic  in  the  world. 

We  trust  to  the  indulgence  of  our  readers  for  this  egotistical 
statement,  which  has  been  forced  from  us  by  sundry  parties 
connected  with  the  American  press,  who  have  questioned  our 
ability  to  form  a  literary  opinion  at  all :  we  do  not  name 
this  out  of  deference  to  that  class  of  journalists,  but  chiefly  as 
an  apology  for  venturing  to  speak  thus  ex  cathedra. 

With  this  explanation,  we  lay  our  remarks  on  the  most  emi 
nent  authors  of  this  Great  Nation  before  our  readers,  reiterat- 


Vlii  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  that,  owing  to  our  having  so  frequently  heard  their  merits 
discussed  by  the  most  distinguished  critics  of  England,  the 
views  expressed  in  this  book  may  rather  be  considered  the 
result  of  their  deliberations  than  our  own  individual  opinion. 


JAMES     FENIMOKE     COOPER. 


MR.  COOPER,  who  is  considered  by  many  as  the  head  of 
American  literature,  was  undoubtedly  the  first  whose  writings 
gave  it  a  prominent  position  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  his  works 
having  been  translated  into  several  of  the  continental  languages. 

Till  his  time  the  literature  of  this  vast  Republic  was  rather 
Colonial  than  National ;  for  without  intending  any  invidious 
comparison,  Mr.  Irving  must  be  considered  more  of  an  English 
classic  than  an  American  author.  We  are  not  aware  of  any 
passage  in  his  numerous  writings  which  an  Englishman  might 
not  have  thought  and  written;  but  in  Mr.  Cooper  we  have 
throughout  the  most  unmistakable  evidences  of  the  Republi 
can  and  the  American.  We  are  not  sure  but  that  he  very 
unnecessarily,  if  not  offensively,  forces  this  upon  our  atten 
tion.  We  do  not  make  this  as  a  complaint  against  either  of 
these  distinguished  writers,  but  merely  point  out  the  fact  to  the 
attention  of  our  readers.  With  this  preliminary  observation 
we  shall  enter  upon  the  consideration  of  Mr.  Cooper's  writings. 

Mr.  Cooper  first  secured  his  hearing  with  the  public,  by  his 
historical  novel  *'  the  Spy,"  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  New 
York ;  this,  though  deficient  in  that  more  stirring  incident 


10  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

which  distinguished  some  of  his  later  works,  contains  some 
admirable  scenes,  and  well  entitled  him  to  that  respectful 
attention  he  enjoyed  for  many  years.  In  this,  he  singular 
ly  developes  the  peculiarities  of  his  nature,  which  are  so 
strikingly  displayed  in  most  of  his  after  productions.  It  is 
curious  to  observe  how  very  much  the  ingredients  of  his  novels 
resemble  each  other ;  and  how  very  early  he  fell  into  that 
amplitude  of  execution  which  has  been  so  great  a  drawback  on 
his  success. 

Of  late  years,  Mr.  Cooper's  novels  remind  us  of  Mr.  Can 
ning's  illustration  of  Brougham's  incessant  advocacy  of  reform, 
which  the  facetious  statesman  said  was  ever  brought  forward  as 
a  nostrum  for  all  evils.  Was  there  an  epidemic  ?  try  Reform 
in  parliament,  cried  Mr.  Brougham ! — was  there  an  earth 
quake?  it  was  all  occasioned  by  the  aristocracy,  in  refusing 
reform  to  the  people !  Mr.  Canning  said  there  was  a  parallel 
case  in  the  monomania  of  a  young  village  painter,  of  whom  he 
had  read  when  a  boy. 

He  had  succeeded  in  painting  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of 
Boniface,  the  sign  of  a  Red  Lion,  which  adorned  a  village  ale- 

o 

house  of  that  name.  The  squire  of  the  hamlet,  anxious  to 
encourage  rising  merit,  sent  for  the  youthful  Raffaelle,  and  said 
that  he  wished  him  to  embellish  with  pictures  a  few  panels  in 
his  great  oak  dining-room.  "  Here,"  he  observed,  "  is  a  large 
space  over  the  fire  hearth— what  do  you  suggest  as  the  best 
subject  ?"  The  painter  put  on  a  profound  air,  rubbed  his  chin 
in  all  the  agony  of  cogitation— looked  up  at  the  panel— then 
down  on  the  ground— and  then  in  a  very  oracular  tone  of  voice 
said,  "  My  deliberate  opinion  is,  that  nothing  will  so  well  be- 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  11 

come  that  space  as  a  very  large  Red  Lion !  what  does  your 
worship  think  ?"  The  squire  seemed  somewhat  surprised  at 
first,  but  acquiesced,  and  at  last  began  to  think  it  a  Red 
Lion  very  well  drawn,  and  colored,  and  in  an  extra  rampant 
attitude,  might  after  all  be  a  very  striking  object  on  entering 
his  Hall.  It  would  have  been  better  had  that  been  the  family 
crest,  but  as  that  emblem  of  Heraldic  distinction  happened  to 
be  an  owl,  and  as  no  ing'enuity  on  the  part  of  the  painter  could 
reasonably  be  expected  to  make  a  red  lion  altogether  like  a  bird, 
why  it  could  not  be  helped. 

This  little  difficulty  thus  satisfactorily  arranged  to  both 
patron  and  painter,  they  proceeded  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  there  the  squire  put  the  same  question  as  to  what 
would  be  the  most  becoming  to  the  opposite  panel :  here, 
however,  there  was  some  difference,  as  the  space  was  much 
smaller.  The  artist  now  buried  himself  in  the  profoundest 
reverie ;  while  he  stood  thus  lost  in  abstraction,  the  squire  said 
to  himself,  "  Ah  I  now  we  shall  have  a  subject  worthy  of  Sal- 
vator  Rosa,  Murillo,  and  Rubens !  His  mind  is  now  ransacking 
history  and  romance,  for  some  stirring  subject  to  astonish  all 
my  friends :  I  like  the  idea,  after  all,  of  that  Red  Lion  for  the 
fire  hearth :  there  is  something  touchingly  simple  in  it — a  truly 
noble  idea.  The  lion  is  the  king  of  the  forest : — a  bold  idea, 
and  shows  the  man  of  original  mind."  He  was  himself  aroused 
from  his  brown  study  by  the  voice  of  the  other  saying,  "  I 
have  it  at  last ; — what  say  you  of  another  Red  Lion — smaller 
than  the  other,  but  made  very  much  redder,  in  order  to  com 
pensate  for  the  loss  of  dimensions  :  it  will  make  an  admirable 
companion  picture."  The  squire  now  found  that  he  proposed 


12  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

to  fill  up  all  the  spaces  with  the  same  animal,  and  so  convert 
his  Hall  into  a  gallery  of  Red  Lions. 

Mr.  Cooper  has  some  little  spice  of  our  artist's  weakness,  and 
is  somewhat  too  fond  of  Red  Indians,  diversifying  them  by 
occasionally  painting  some  much  redder  than  others. 

There  is  likewise  too  great  a  similarity  in  his  plots  ;  we  have 
the  same  scenes  over  and  over  again,  until  at  length  we  seem 
to  have  lost  our  path  in  a  primeval  forest  of  novels,  out  of 
which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  read  our  way. 

The   greatest  charm   about  Cooper's  novels   is  the   perfect 
truthfulness  of  their  forest  scenery  ;  there  is  nothing  artificial  in 
a  single  word — the  very  trees  seem  to  grow  around  you  :  it  is 
not  scene  painting,  it  is  nature.     In  many  of  Bulwer's  novels  we 
cannot  shake  off  the  feeling  that  the  whole  is  theatrical :  we 
acknowledge  the  picture,  but  we  see  it  by  the  light  of  the  foot- 
lamps.     It  is  very  good,  certainly,  but  it  is  not  life.     We  cannot 
do  better  than  illustrate  this  by  an   anecdote  we  once  heard  of 
a  very  acute  critic.     A  party  of  friends  one  evening  were  discuss 
ing  the  acting  of  the  elder  Kean  and  his  son ;  all  agreed  in 
praising  the  felicity  with  which  the  son  imitated  the  father : 
one  went  so  far  as  to  declare  he  saw  little  difference  between 
them.     This  called  up  our  critic,  who  said  he  would  endeavor 
to  describe  the  difference.     "  Let  us  select,"  said  he,  "  the  cele 
brated  tent  scene  of  Richard  the  Third :  it  is,  of  all  others,  that 
in  which  the  younger  is  the  most  successful  in  imitating-  the 
elder  one.     When  I  saw  old  Edmund  lying  on  the  couch,  writh 
ing  as  it  were  beneath  all  the  horrors  of  a  guilty  conscience, 
his  restless  and  disturbed  action  told  me  more  than  words  : 
when,  finally,  under  the  paroxysm  of  the  terrible  dream,  he 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  13 

starts  up,  and  staggers  to  the  very  brink  of  the  orchestra,  my 
attention  was  riveted  on  the  terrible  picture  before  me — that 
was  nature  :  I  saw  the  remorseful  conscience-stung  tyrant,  and 
him  alone.  But  in  the  case  of  his  son  'twas  very  different ; 
true,  he  did  it  physically  precisely  as  his  father  had  done  : 
nothing  pantomimic  was  omitted,  but  the  soul  was  wanting, 
and  as  he  came  reeling  towards  the  audience,  I  said  to  myself, 
By  heaven  he  will  cut  his  knees  upon  the  footlights."  Thus 
differ  Bulwer  and  Cooper. 

With  regard  to  his  Indians,  we  have  heard  some  Ameri 
cans  declare  that  they  are  not  natural,  but,  as  they  termed 
them,  Mr.  Cooper's  Indians  :  we  can  only  speak  as  they  im 
pressed  us.  It  must  always  be  borne  in  mind  that  a  novelist 
labors  under  a  disadvantage  when  he  is  drawing  human 
nature,  which  he  does  not  when  he  is  painting  nature's  scenery ; 
as  a  matter  of  necessity,  he  must  exaggerate,  or,  as  they  term  it, 
idealize  the  living  characters  in  his  works.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
the  scene  he  chooses  to  describe  ;  he  may  be  as  literal  as  he 
pleases  in  the  one  case — then  he  is  pronounced  graphic,  and 
wonderfully  true  to  nature;  but  if  he  portrays  with  equal 
fidelity  the  beings  he  brings  forth  upon  his  canvas,  he  is  con 
demned  as  tame  and  common-place.  It  thus  requires  a  double 
power  to  produce  a  successful  romance  ;  and  it  is  in  this  two 
fold  capacity  that  we  consider  Mr.  Cooper  so  admirable  a  writer. 

Even  in  the  very  worst  of  his  novels,  there  are  glimpses  of 
nature  so  exquisitely  painted  as  to  justify  the  highest  praise  it 
is  possible  to  bestow. 

It  is  just  probable  that  the  very  success  of  this  description  of 
writing  has  led  Mr.  Cooper  to  persevere  in  a  course  which  has 

I* 


14  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

exposed  him  to  the  charge  of   being  considered  a  writer  of 
limited  range. 

That  the  author  of  the  "  Pilot  "  succeeds  best  in  forest  scenes, 
and  with  Indians  as  actors,  is  undoubtedly  true ;  but  this  applies 
in  a  certain  sense  to  every  distinguished  author.  That  Mr. 
Cooper  has  narrowed  his  range  by  a  too  engrossing  attention 
to  a  particular  species  of  human  life,  is  another  question,  which 
it  is  vain  here  to  discuss.  The  predisposition  of  a  wrriter  for  a 
particular  kind  of  work  is  not  always  a  proof  that  it  is  his  forte 
— it  may  be,  as  Leigh  Hunt  once  facetiously  observed,  his 
piano  ;  inclination  is  not  a  good  test  of  genius.  It  is  too  fre 
quently  the  offspring  of  indolence  and  facility  of  execution. 
It  is  the  common  trick  of  humanity  to  avoid  the  toilsome  and 
rugged  road.  All  prefer  the  flowery  path  :  what  is  difficult, 
becomes  irksome:  till,  in  time,  the  efforts  become  more  and 
more  rare,  until  at  length  they  are  altogether  discontinued. 

From  this  habit  results  the  sameness  of  so  many  writers. 
They  first,  out  of  the  impulse  and  love  of  adventure  so  insepa 
rably  connected  with  youth,  force  a  way  for  themselves  through 
the  tangled  thicket  of  those  vague  desires  which  invariably 
predicate  the  poetical  mind.  Proud  of  the  achievement  this  path 
is  retrod,  and  when  the  charm  of  novelty  has  died  away,  the 
momentum  which  formerly  carried  the  young  spirit  on  is 
lessened,  and  the  beaten  path  is  of  course  preferred  to  the 
labor  of  making  another  track  in  a  new  direction. 

Mr.  Cooper's  novels  of  Mercedes  of  Castile  and  the  Bravo 
of  Venice,  are  evidences  that  he  has  tried  other  parts,  but  it  by 
no  means  follows,  because  he  has  not  succeeded  equally  well  in 
these  new  phases,  that  he  could  not  have  done  so.  His  Indian 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  15 

Romances  are  numerous  ;  his  foreign  ones  are  isolated  efforts. 
He  should  have  cultivated  this  vein,  and  worked  out  more  of  the 
material,  and  not  abandoned  the  field  at  the  first  defeat.  But  it 
appears  that  he  was  laboring  under  the  impression  that  his 
genius  lay  the  other  way  ;  and,  consequently,  Mr.  Cooper  tired 
his  public  somewhat,  by  writing  Back  wood  novels  too  pertina 
ciously. 

He  should  also  have  been  guided  more  by  the  experience  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  than  by  his  own  Impulse,  or  what  is  worse, 
Self-will.  For,  while  we  admit  that  the  genius  of  the  British 
Novelist  walks  more  steadily  and  naturally  on  the  Heaths  and 
Moors  of  Scotland,  and  lives  evidently  more  at  ease  with  the 
characters  of  his  native  land,  he  nevertheless  excels  every  other 
writer  of  Romance  in  general  subjects  likewise  ;  with  the  sole 
exception  of  the  Supernatural,  where  Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  Monk 
Lewis  are  unapproached.  Scott  is  indisputably  the  most  suc 
cessful  of  the  writers  of  fiction ;  but  even  he  too  frequently 
allows  the  facility  with  which  he  wrote  dialogues  in  genuine 
Scotch  to  seduce  him  into  tedious  conversations,  which  weaken 
very  materially  the  effect  of  his  best  scenes,  by  wearying  the 
reader  before  the  emphatic  moment  has  arrived.  It  is  very 
unartistic  to  jade  the  attention,  as  it  destroys  the  keenness  of 
appreciation  when  it  is  most  required  to  heighten  the  effect  of 
a  denouement. 

We  have  heard  some  critics  lay  this  charge  to  the  "  three 
volume  system,"  which,  they  maintain,  compels  them  to  adopt 
this  superfluous  writing  to  fill  up  the  space ;  but  we  do  not 
think  this  at  all  a  valid  reason.  A  careless  or  incompetent 
dramatist  might  charge  the  tediousness  or  irrelevant  nature  of 


16  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

his  writing  upon  the  established  custom  of  a  Play  having  Five 
Acts.  Every  Romance  and  every  Drama  has  a  natural  length, 
and  the  true  artist  never  need  write  a  superfluous  word; 
symmetry  is  the  truest  beauty,  and,  like  a  circle,  is  complete  in 
itself  without  any  reference  to  size ;  so  has  a  work  of  art, 
whether  in  poetry,  philosophy,  or  science,  a  relative  propriety 
individual  to  itself.  The  child  is  as  perfect  in  its  way  as  the 
Giant,  and  it  would  be  absurd  for  either  to  deny  to  the  other 
the  possession  of  beauty,  simply  on  account  of  difference  of 
stature.  The  real  dramatist  will  so  apportion  the  incidents  that 
the  critical  eye  will  at  once  recognise  their  affinity  to  each 
other,  and  the  necessity  for  the  existence  of  each,  with  as  much 
logical  readiness  as  the  eye  passes  over  the  human  frame, 
and  at  once  detects  a  deficiency  or  superfluity  of  the  limbs 
composing  it. 

Some  authors  seem  to  consider  that  if  they  have  a  great  or 
striking  catastrophe,  any  amount  of  feeble  or  discursive  matter 
will  be  tolerated  ;  but  the  absurdity  of  this  is  evident.  What 
would  be  said  of  a  sculptor,  who,  conscious  of  the  workmanship 
of  the  face  of  his  statue,  considered  the  drapery,  or  the  rest  of 
the  figure,  unworthy  of  his  elaboration !  A  very  slight  defect 
spoils  the  general  effect,  and  the  masses  are  more  moved  by  the 
tout-ensemble  than  by  the  surprising  finish  of  any  individual 
part. 

The  coherency  of  a  book  is,  in  short,  its  life  as  well  as  its 
beauty.  However  finely  worked  out  some  parts  of  Mr.  Cooper's 
"  Bravo  "  may  be,  the  improbability  of  the  plot  is  too  glaring 
to  allow  it  a  permanent  existence.  It  opens  well,  the  atten 
tion  is  aroused,  and  when  we  come  to  the  death  of  the  old 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  l 

fisherman,  we  are  fully  convinced  the  romance  is  of  first-rate 
pretensions  ;  but  it  dwindles  as  it  progresses  into  a  mere  impro 
bability,  which  irritates  the  more  in  proportion  to  the  force  and 
beauty  of  the  opening  scenes.  Still,  in  these  attempts,  even  a 
failure  is  more  glorious  than  the  successful  achievement  of  count 
less  sketches,  which  have  nothing  to  recommend  them  beyond  the 
carefulness  of  their  finish  ;  it  is  a  very  safe  and  a  very  easy 
way  to  found  a  reputation  upon  the  fidelity  of  minute  descrip 
tion.  What  powers  of  mind  are  required  to  describe  an  elabo 
rate  duck,  or  a  fat  man  getting  into  a  coach,  or  the  thousand 
and  one  other  inanities  in  which  some  writers  are  considered  so 
perfectly  classical?  What  heart  is  roused  by  all  this  laborious 
trifling?  Literature  degenerates  into  a  foible,  and  becomes  a 
frivolous  plaything,  and  not  a  great  organ  of  instruction.  No 
amount  of  personal  exaggeration  or  flattery  can  ever  elevate  the 
most  successful  writer  of  this  description  into  anything  beyond 
a  fifth-rate  writer. 

Mr.  Cooper's  wilfulness,  which  is  apparent  only  by  implication 
in  his  works  of  fiction,  is  very  palpably  developed  in  his  travels. 
Here  he  places  himself  before  the  public  as  his  own  caricaturist, 
and  insists  upon  his  own  condemnation  by  his  readers.  Still,  even 
in  this  adverse  position,  the  independence  of  his  nature  comes 
out  nobly,  and  his  republican  steadiness  contrasts  very  strongly 
with  the  placid  amenities  of  Mr.  Irving.  Born  ourselves  under 
monarchical  institutions,  our  national  and  natural  prejudices 
are  disposed  to  a  favorable  reception  of  any  praise  a  foreigner 
— more  especially  a  republican — may  feel  inclined  to  bestow 
upon  England ;  but  we  must  admit,  that  the  smiling  benignity 
with  which  Mr.  Irving  surveys  every  evidence  of  aristocratical 


18  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

power,  gives  us  but  a  very  poor  opinion  of  either  his  sincerity 
or  his  republican  feelings.  lie  describes,  with  evident  delight, 
the  royal  state  of  the  English  nobility ;  he  has  no  eye  to  see 
the  foundation  of  wrong  and  oppression  on  which  that  magnifi 
cent  superstructure  is  reared.  The  baronial  castles  of  the  aris 
tocracy  of  England  have  been  reared  by  crimes  and  cruelties 
as  revolting  to  humanity  as  the  pyramid  of  Cheops,  and  we 
feel  bound  to  add,  that  they  are  maintained  in  the  same  man 
ner.  We  will  not  be  so  invidious  as  to  go  through  Mr.  Irving's 
writings,  and  collect  in  one  spot  all  the  fulsome  flatteries  on 
that  exclusive  class  which  he  has  so  plentifully  besto\ved ;  we 
merely  appeal  to  the  reader's  impression,  and  may  state,  as  a 
confirmation  of  the  truth  of  our  remarks,  that  this  very  pecu 
liarity  has  been  converted  by  many  into  a  merit,  and  claimed  as 
an  evidence  of  this  distinguished  author's  freedom  from  national 
prejudice,  and  willingness  to  do  justice  to  all.  As  we  shall  enter 
more  minutely  into  this  subject  when  we  come  to  treat  of  Mr. 
Irving  under  his  proper  head,  we  drop  it  for  the  present,  remark 
ing  that  we  have  here  incidentally  mentioned  it  as  a  contrast  to 
the  tone  of  Mr.  Cooper's  mind ;  and  while  one  party  claims  free 
dom  from  nationality  as  a  merit,  we  merely  plead  in  behalf  of 
Mr.  Cooper  his  republican  tendencies,  as  a  possible  extenuation 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Americans. 

This  individuality  has  pursued  our  author  through  his  life, 
and  impelled  him  to  some  unpopular  steps — among  others,  to 
his  prosecution  of  the  Press.  We  allow  that  it  is  a  grievous 
trial  of  patience  to  be  abused  in  the  papers  and  held  up  to 
public  scorn  or  censure,  but  the  real  parties  to  blame  are  not  so 
much  the  journalists  as  their  readers. 


JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPER.  19 

It  is  the  public  who  is  to  blame ;  and  the  man  who  attacks 
the  press  might  as  well  run  his  head  against  a  wall,  or  spring 
from  Niagara.  The  true  wisdom  is  not  to  heed  it ;  nothing 
prolongs  the  barking  of  a  cur  at  your  heels  so  much  as  turning 
round  to  kick  it,  or  to  drive  it  away.  Walk  on  unmoved,  the 
dog  will  not  bite,  and  the  friends  who  are  influenced  by  the 
barking  are  best  got  rid  of,  and  belong  to  that  class  which 
Carlyle  pronounces  "  the  sham  respectability  of  the  world,  but 
the  real  and  true  blackguards."  The  "  gigmanity "  of  society 
is  more  ludicrous  than  potential ;  great  allowance  should  be 
made  for  the  equivocal  position  of  most  of  the  prudes  and  cen 
sors  of  mankind.  As  weak  wines  make  good  vinegar,  so  do 
reformed  wantons  and  quondam  bankrupts  become  naturally 
the  guardians  of  public  morals,  and  the  retailers  of  slander. 

Mr.  Cooper  reaped  the  usual  fruits  of  assaulting  so  many- 
headed  a  monster  as  the  Press ;  and  it  is  said  by  those  who  know 
him  best,  that  few  things  have  done  so  much  to  sour  his  tem 
per  as  this  crusade.  Cervantes  must  have  had  a  similar  adven 
ture  in  his  mind  when  he  made  Don  Quixote  attack  the  wind 
mills.  It  has  always  appeared  to  us  a  capital  illustration  of  a 
battle  with  the  Newspapers. 

While,  however,  we  deprecate  the  commission  of  so  great  a 
folly  as  a  legal  prosecution,  we  think  we  have  a  perfect  right  to 
turn  round  and  criticise  the  critics  ;  singular  enough,  they  seem 
to  consider  this  as  a  wonderful  impertinence,  and  to  resent  it 
with  additional  bitterness. 

We  do  not,  however,  intend  here  to  enter  into  an  elaborate 
essay  upon  the  Despotism  of  the  Press ;  we  merely  intend  to 
offer  a  passing  remark,  as  to  the  evil  tendencies  of  the  unli- 


20  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

censed  abuse  now  so  prevalent  with  the  writers  of  the  public 
Journals. 

We  have  heard  Mr.  Wordsworth  maintain,  that  the  only 
plan  to  preserve  the  author's  mind  and  morals  in  a  pure, 
healthy  state,  was  to  adopt  the  rule  he  had  unflinchingly  ob 
served  through  life, — never  to  read  any  review  of  himself, 
either  of  praise  or  censure,  whatever  might  be  the  temptation. 
He  went  on  to  prove,  that  in  time  we  became  callous  to  public 
opinion,  and  consequently  one  great  guard  on  the  virtue  of 
mankind  was  lost ;  if  we  make  a  point  of  reading  criticisms, 
we  feel  at  first  stung  into  indignation,  vindictive  feelings  are 
naturally  aroused,  our  own  peace  of  mind  is  wounded,  and 
we  either  become  the  sport  of  every  fool  or  knave  who  writes 
for  the  journals  of  the  day,  or  grow  callous  to  public 
opinion.  We  refer  to  that  part  of  our  volume  which  treats  of 
this  subject,  for  a  fuller  exposition  of  the  present  vicious  system 
of  Journalism.  The  comic  part  of  this  enormous  abuse  is  ad 
mirably  exposed  by  Dickens  in  "  Pickwick,"  in  his  history  of 
the  war  between  the  rival  editors  of  Eatanswill. 

The  chief  defect  in  Mr.  Cooper's  novels  is  the  want  of  hu 
mor  ;  we  mean  this  in  its  broad  Shakspearian  sense,  admitting 
that  there  is  a  racy,  quiet  shrewdness  in  many  of  the  remarks 
of  Natty  Bumppo,  which  supplies  the  place. 

The  character  of  that  simple-minded  hunter  is  certainly  the 
greatest  effort  of  its  author;  and  the  Leather-Stocking  Ro 
mances  will  undoubtedly  remain  permanently  a  part  of  the 
national  literature. 

Like  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mr.  Cooper  has  written  too  much, 
and  has  published  too  fast.  The  world  is  very  quickwitted,  and 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  21 

not  slow  to  proclaim  when  an  author  grows  tedious ;  although 
the  unwitting  scribe,  like  the  archbishop  in  Gil  Bias,  takes  it 
very  unkindly  should  the  dreadful  fact  be  even  hinted. 

While  admitting  that  the  Leather-Stocking  Romances  are 
Mr.  Cooper's  greatest  efforts,  we  must  object  as  critics  to 
the  elaboration  of  his  making  one  man  the  hero  of  five  distinct 
works  of  fiction,  although  we  feel  sure  we  have  negatived 
the  criticism  as  readers.  There  is  something  to  be  sure  in 
habit,  which  may  perhaps  make  us  like  what  at  first  was  only 
endured  ;  but  our  feeling  for  Nathaniel  Bumppo  becomes  in  time 
an  affection.  This  must  necessarily  imply  a  power  which  be 
longs  only  to  genius  ;  for  the  reiteration  of  an  idea  or  a  presence 
by  a  common-place  writer,  inevitably  leads  to  disgust.  A  very 
small  reflection  will  convince  us  of  this  fact. 

Another  proof  of  the  hazard  an  author  runs  in  reviving  the 
character  of  any  former  work,  is  found  in  the  infrequency  of  its 
occurrence.  Every  writer  has  a  certain  instinct  which  unmis 
takably  counsels,  however  vaguely,  the  true  path ;  and  we 
want  no  surer  evidence  of  lack  of  genius — or  in  other  words, 
the  power  to  create  that  which  appeals  to  the  greater  number 
of  human  minds — than  the  repeated  failure  of  certain  volu 
minous  writers  ;  the  only  exception  to  be  made  in  this  rule  is 
with  a  few  authors  whose  idiosyncrasy  is  superior  to  their 
genius,  as  in  the  case  of  Donne,  Browning,  and  in  a  lesser  de 
gree  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson. 

What  mannerism  is  in  style,  idiosyncrasy  is  in  thought ;  and 
betrays  to  the  world  a  deficiency  in  that  harmony  of  intellectual 
endowments  which  constitute  true  genius,  just  as  regularity  of 
feature  is  essential  to  a  perfect  face.  This  comparison  admits  of 


22  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

a  full  development,  and  may  make  our  idea  clearer  to  the 
general  reader  than  a  technical  analysis.  We  all  know  how  fre 
quently  the  most  perfect  classicality  of  feature  exists  without 
beauty :  whereas  in  many  irregular  faces,  there  is  as  often 
found  so  charming  an  expression,  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive 
any  countenance  more  lovely.  In  like  manner,  an  apparent 
union  of  many  qualities  may  exist  without  producing  the  great 
poet  or  novelist ;  on  the  other  hand,  we  sometimes  observe  a 
writer  who  wilfully  avoids  the  true  path,  or  else  clouds  over  his 
course  by  a  peculiarity  artificially  created.  Now  we  think  this 
applies  in  a  considerable  degree  to  Mr.  Cooper,  who  has  weak 
ened  his  powers  by  narrowing  his  original  impulses. 

The  works  of  a  great  mind  should  radiate  from  his  inmost 
soul  as  from  a  centre  whose  circumference  is  lost  in  metaphy 
sical  truth,  so  lofty  as  to  appear  subtilized.  In  this  case,  the 
lowest  intellect,  as  well  as  the  highest,  is  carried  to  the  full 
extent  of  its  capacity  of  enjoyment  or  thought,  and  still  the 
author  is  not  exhausted.  It  is  this  which  stamps  Shakspeare 
as  indisputably  the  first  of  Poets — the  peasant  and  the  philoso 
pher  are  alike  instructed  and  elevated.  Every  man,  woman,  and 
child,  starts  from  one  common  point,  viz.  the  heart.  This  is 
the  centre  of  Shakspeare's  nature  ;  the  extent  of  his  kingdom 
is  the  Imagination.  The  inference  is  a  logical  deduction,  that 
every  reader  of  inferior  mind,  in  proportion  as  he  masters  his 
author,  becomes  elevated  into  a  superior  nature.  It  is  this 
peculiarity  of  the  mind  that  always  makes  the  student  of  One 
Book  a  dangerous  antagonist :  like  the  man  who  has  devoted 
his  attention  to  one  weapon,  he  becomes  invincible  in  that  de 
partment.  Imitation  is  so  woven  in  all  our  natures,  even  in 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  23 

that  of  the  most  original  genius,  that  no  man  can  devote  much 
attention  to  a  particular  author  without  being  modified  by  that 
preference.  Browning's  admiration  of  Alfieri  and  Donne  has 
condensed  his  thoughts  and  cramped  his  style  ;  Carlyle  suffers 
also  from  his  excessive  partiality  for  Richter.  Our  readers  must 
not  think  these  remarks,  however  dull,  altogether  misplaced; 
they  will  enable  him  the  more  clearly  to  judge  why  the  writ 
ings  of  Cooper,  admirable  as  they  are,  are  not  more  exten 
sively  popular  with  his  countrymen.  They  are  written  more  for 
an  English  audience  than  for  an  American.  The  Anglo-Saxons 
on  the  other  side  the  Atlantic  have  a  thousand  years  upon  their 
brow,  and  they  have  become  artificialized  just  to  that  extent, 
which  renders  the  wild  scenes  of  nature  so  vividly  brought  be 
fore  them  by  Cooper,  refreshing  'to  the  highest  degree  of  pleas 
ure  ;  it  is  appealing  to  the  instinct  of  contrast. 

Gray  beautifully  illustrates  this  in  one  of  his  poetical  frag 
ments,  when  he  says : 

"  So  the  wretch  that  long  was  tost 
On  the  thorny  bed  of  Pain, 
At  length  regains  Ms  vigor  lost, 
He  lives — he  breathes  again : 
The  humblest  flow'ret  of  the  vale : 
The  lowest  note  that  swells  the  gale ; 
The  common  earth — the  air — the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise." 

The  true  secret  of  delight  lies  in  the  antagonism  of  Human 
Nature.  The  artificial  creates  a  love  for  the  natural,  its  oppo 
site  ;  just  as  men  love  women — strength  loves  fragility — fragility 


24  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

yearns  for  strength— the  low  adores  the  lofty  ;  the  idea  of  subli 
mity  is  a  contrast !  it  requires  humility  to  feel  awe.  Grandeur 
is  the  result  of  a  physical  or  intellectual  contradiction ;  equals 
can  never  admire  equals — a  sympathy  is  destruction  to  subli 
mity  ;  these  are  not  paradoxes,  but  facts ;  and  facts  based  upon 
human  observations.  The  smaller  the  man,  the  greater  the 
mountain — and  it  arises  from  the  egotism  of  our  common 
nature;  every  man,  however  small  or  however  great,  makes 
himself  the  standard  of  excellence,  and  we  affirm,  in  all  reve 
rence,  that  if  we  look  deeply  and  unshrinkingly  into  our  own 
souls,  we  shall  be  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  fact,  that 
every  man's  idea  of  God  is  founded  upon  himself,  magnified  to 
the  utmost  extent  of  that  particular  man's  arithmetical  or  intel 
lectual  vision.  In  proportion  to  the  spectrum  will  be  the  figure 
thrown  upon  the  canvas ;  in  a  manner,  God  is  the  spectre  of 
the  Brocken,  depending  upon  various  accidents  of  the  elements. 
It  was  a  favorite  remark  of  Coleridge,  that  if  any  man  would 
faithfully  and  clearly  write  down  his  definition  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  he  would  unhesitatingly  give  him  his  own  character.  He 
illustrated  this  position  with  many  instances  of  men,  whose 
religious  opinions  we  well  knew,  and  in  every  instance  he  pre 
sented  us  with  a  key  to  the  man's  whole  character. 

This  undeviating  coherency  is  forcibly  exemplified  in  many 
authors,  and  especially  in  that  of  "  the  Spy." 

Mark,  too,  how  wonderfully  the  pride  and  restlessness  of  the 
man  are  shown  in  the  creations  of  his  fancy.  The  family  likeness 
is  too  strong  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  As  we  have  remarked  before, 
this  does  not  invariably  ignore  the  existence  of  genius,  it 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  25 

merely  throws  it  out  of  its  universality :  we  use  tliis  word  as 
in  contrast  to  the  term  Idiosyncratic. 

We  have  sometimes  heard  Cooper  called  a  prose  Wordsworth 
of  the  Woods  :  and  in  a  certain  sense  it  is  true — for  we  recognise 
in  three  fourths  of  his  stories  that  pervading  impress  of  forest 
scenery  which  is  his  peculiar  charm. 

This,  doubtless,  is  the  reason  why  so  many  complain  of  the 
monotony  of  these  writers.  The  success  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
lies  in  his  variety  ;  here  Cooper  fails.  This  tendency  to  one  tune 
is  a  mistake,  so  far  as  the  public  is  concerned.  To  be  popular, 
an  author  must  be  various  ;  truly  a  difficult  problem  to  solve, 
since  there  is  no  giude  who  can  find  the  trail.  This  is  one  of 
those  points  in  which  experience  is  fatal  as  to  detail,  benefiting 
only  by  the  broad  bold  fact,  that  it  cannot  invent  an  origi 
nality  ;  like  Poets,  they  must  be  born,  not  made. 

In  "  the  Pilot "  we  observe  the  nationality  of  the  author  in 
an  undue  predominance :  indeed  this  remark  applies  to  all  he 
has  published,  where  the  two  countries  come  into  conflict. 

The  character  of  Long  Tom  Coffin,  admirable  as  it  is,  seems 
more  English  than  American ;  it  is  founded  more  on  Dibdin's 
Songs  than  the  transatlantic  Sailor.  This  was  turned  to  good 
account  by  some  English  Playwright  when  the  novel  first 
appeared  ;  for  he  reversed  the  action,  and  making  Tom  Coffin  an 
English  Seaman,  and  Boroughcliffe  an  American  Volunteer, 
coolly  transferred  the  scene  of  action  to  the  shores  of  the  New 
World.  With  this  slight  alteration,  the  British  public  highly 
enjoyed  the  Drama. 

We  well  remember  one  night  when  Cooke  as  Long  Tom,  and 
Reeve  as  BoroughclifFe,  were  convulsing  the  audience,  that  some 


26  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

Americans  gave  vent  to  their  indignation,  and  loudly  protested 
against  Reeve's  outrageous  caricature ;  after  a  few  involuntary 
ebullitions  their  patriotism  cooled,  and  they  endured  the  rest 
with  praiseworthy  and  smiling  composure. 

There  are  so  many  stirring  scenes  in  this  novel  that  it  carries 
the  reader  through  without  much  effort ;  but,  after  the  excite 
ment  of  the  first  perusal  is  over,  we  cannot  help  noticing  the 
serious  defects  that  stare  us  in  the  face.  There  is  a  needless 
obscurity  in  the  character  of  Paul  Jones,  from  whom  the  novel 
derives  its  name ;  it  seems  to  us  that  any  man  conversant  with 
the  coasting  trade  would  have  done,  and  that  a  fine  character 
has  been  brought  to  do  porter's  work.  His  skill  in  conducting 
the  vessel  out  of  its  difficulties,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  shoals 
and  the  rocks,  are  certainly  truly  marvellous,  reminding  us  some 
what  of  the  Irish  Pilot,  who,  boarding  a  ship  in  the  mouth  of 
a  harbor,  was  asked  by  the  Captain  if  he  was  sure  he  knew 
all  the  rocks  ? 

"  Oh !  to  be  sure  I  do,"  said  Paddy.  "  I  know  every  rock 
about ;  that's  a  fact." 

"  You  are  the  very  man  for  me,"  exclaimed  the  delighted 
captain,  and  forthwith  engaged  him  to  pilot  the  ship  to 
her  moorings.  Soon  after,  to  his  indignation  and  dismay,  the 
vessel  went  bump  upon  a  rock,  and  remained  fast.  He  cried 
out  in  his  wrath — 

"  Why,  you  lying  villain,  you  said  you  knew  every  rock  in 
the  harbor  !" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  coolly  replied  the  pilot,  "  and  this  is  one  of 
them  /" 

Paul  Jones,  the  bold-brave  Admiral,  ought,  we  consider,  not 
to  have  been  introduced  by  the  author,  if  he  could  find  nothing 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  27 

better  for  him  to  do  than  to  conduct  the  ship  out  of  sound 
ings.  Probably  this  artistic  error  arose  from  that  same  over 
weening  national  prejudice,  which  is  so  great  a  defect  in  Mr. 
Cooper's  novels.  Had  he  done  justice  to  the  capabilities  and 
career  of  Paul  Jones,  he  would  of  necessity  have  overshadowed 
the  American  actors,  and  consequently  the  hero  would  have  been 
a  Scotchman.  A  great  author  should  never  suffer  the  smaller 
to  control  the  greater  ;  arid,  in  a  work  of  art,  truth  should  reign, 
and  not  prejudice.  Pursuing  this  plan,  History  itself  might  be 
altered  to  suit  national  feeling.  A  certain  patriotic  leaning  is 
perhaps  unavoidable,  and  we  can  readily  sympathize  with  its 
exhibition ;  but  it  should  never  distort,  much  less  destroy  the 
truth. 

We  shall  not  enter  into  the  improbabilities  of  the  plot,  but 
endeavor  to  illustrate  Mr.  Cooper's  genius  by  bringing  before 
the  reader  the  scene  where  the  old  sailor  perishes  suicidally 
in  the  vessel.  It  is  so  powerfully  drawn — so  vividly  brought 
before  us — that  we  do  not  stop  to  inquire  how  far  it  is  cor 
rect  in  point  of  character.  The  great  difference  between  a  pas 
sion  and  a  monomania  lies  in  the  pursuit  of  the  object,  and  the 
overvaluing  of  it.  In  one  sense  every  passion  may  be  termed  a 
monomania,  but,  though  the  line  of  demarcation  varies  in  dif 
ferent  individuals,  it  is,  nevertheless,  very  plainly  defined. 

A  monomania  is  a  passion  carried  to  an  unnatural  extent. 
Love  is  natural,  but  when  this  passion  for  an  object  carries  us 
beyond  reason  it  becomes  a  monomania.  Judged  by  this  rule, 
Long  Tom  Coffin  is  a  monomaniac,  for  no  rational  being  would 
destroy  himself  because  a  favorite  ship  was  sinking.  Still  with 
even  this  serious  drawback,  the  genius  of  a  fine  writer  is  visible 
throughout  the  following  extract. 


28  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

"  Dillon  and  the  cockswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants  of  their 
dreadful  station.  The  former  stood,  in  a  kind  of  stupid  despair,  a 
witness  of  the  scene  we  have  related ;  but  as  his  curdled  blood 
began  again  to  flow  more  warmly  through  his  heart,  he  crept  close 
to  the  side  of  Tom,  with  that  sort  of  selfish  feeling  that  makes 
even  hopeless  misery  more  tolerable,  when  endured  in  participation 
with  another. 

" '  When  the  tide  falls,'  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the  agony 
of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the  renewal  of  hope, '  we 
shall  be  able  to  walk  to  land.' 

" '  There  was  One,  and  only  One,  to  whose  feet  the  waters  were 
the  same  as  a  dry  deck,'  returned  the  cockswain ;  '  and  none  but 
such  as  have  his  power  will  ever  be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks 
to  the  sands.'  The  old  seaman  paused,  and  turning  his  eyes,  which 
exhibited  a  mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compassion,  on  his 
companion,  he  added,  with  reverence, — '  Had  you  thought  more  of 
him  in  fan-  weather,  your  case  would  be  less  to  be  pitied  in  this 
tempest.' 

" '  Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger  ?'  asked  Dillon. 

" '  To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen  !  do  you  hear 
that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye  ?' 

" '  'Tis  the  wind,  driving  by  the  vessel !' 

'  'Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,'  said  the  affected  cockswain,  '  giving 
her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking  up  her  decks,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more  the  handsomest  model  that  ever  cut  a  wave  will  be 
like  the  chips  that  fell  from  her  timbers  in  framing !' 

"  '  Why,  then,  did  you  remain  here  ?'  cried  Dillon,  wildly. 

; « To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God,'  returned 
Tom.  '  These  waves,  to  me,  are  what  the  land  is  to  you  ;  I  was 
born  on  them,  and  I  have  always  meant  that  they  should  be  my 
grave.' 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  29 

"  *  But  I — I,'  shrieked  Dillon, '  I  am  not  ready  to  die ! — I  cannot 
die  ! — I  will  not  die !' 

" '  Poor  wretch !'  muttered  his  companion  ;  '  you  must  go,  like  the 
rest  of  us ;  when  the  death-watch  is  called,  none  can  skulk  from 
the  muster.' 

"  '  I  can  swim,'  Dillon  continued,  rushing,  with  frantic  eagerness, 
to  the  side  of  the  wreck.  '  Is  there  no  billet  of  wood,  no  rope, 
that  I  can  take  with  me  ?' 

" '  None ;  everything  has  been  cut  away  or  carried  off  by  the  sea. 
If  ye  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take  with  ye  a  stout  heart 
and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the  rest  to  God !' 

"  '  God  !'  echoed  Dillon  in  the  madness  of  his  phrensy ;  *  I  know 
no  God  !  there  is  no  God  that  knows  me  !' 

" '  Peace  !'  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements  ;  '  blasphemer,  peace  !' 

The  heavy  groaning,  produced  by  the  water  in  the  timbers  of 
the  Ariel,  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse  to  the  raging  feelings 

of  Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself  headlong  into  the  sea. 

*          *          *          *          ****** 

"  '  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow !  sheer  to  the  south 
ward  !' 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too  much 
obscured  by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object ;  he,  however,  blindly 
yielded  to  the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his  direction,  until  his 
face  was  once  more  turned  towards  the  vessel.  The  current  swept 
him  diagonally  by  the  rocks,  and  he  was  forced  into  an  eddy,  where 
he  had  nothing  to  contend  against  but  the  waves,  whose  violence 
was  much  broken  by  the  wreck.  In  this  state  he  continued  still  to 
struggle,  but  with  a  force  that  was  too  much  weakened  to  over 
come  the  resistance  he  met.  Tom  looked  around  him  for  a  rope, 
but  all  had  gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by  the 
waves.  At  this  moment  of  disappointment  his  eyes  met  those  of 

2 


30          JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

the  desperate  Dillon.  Calm,  and  inured  to  horrors,  as  was  the 
veteran  seaman,  he  involuntarily  passed  his  hand  before  his  brow, 
to  exclude  the  look  of  despair  he  encountered;  and  when,  a 
moment  afterwards,  he  removed  the  rigid  member,  he  beheld  the 
sinking  form  of  the  victim,  as  it  gradually  settled  in  the  ocean,  still 
struggling,  with  regular,  but  impotent  strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet, 
to  gain  the  wreck,  and  to  preserve  an  existence  that  had  been  so 
much  abused  in  its  hour  of  allotted  probation. 

" '  He  will  soon  know  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  God  knows 
him  !'  murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself.  As  he  yet  spoke,  the 
wreck  of  the  Ariel  yielded  to  an  overwhelming  sea,  and,  after  a 
universal  shudder,  her  timbers  and  planks  gave  way,  and  were 
swept  towards  the  cliifs,  bearing  the  body  of  the  simple-hearted 
cockswain  among  the  ruins." 

We  have  before  alluded  to  "  the  Bravo,"  where  this  indomi 
table  wilfulness  has  perilled  the  success  of  the  work  in  ques 
tion.  There  is  a  fine  shadow  thrown  over  the  following  scene, 
which  reminds  us  of  some  of  the  effects  produced  by  the  Old 
Masters.  Indeed,  authors  and  painters  are  fellow  artists;  one 
works  with  words,  the  other  with  colors  ;  one  reaches  nature 
through  the  eye,  the  other  through  the  ear.  The  advantage, 
however,  lies  with  the  poet,  as  his  descriptions  rouse  the  eye 
to  an  activity  as  well  as  the  other  senses  ;  for  to  a  reader  of  the 
commonest  imagination,  we  doubt  if  every  vivid  description 
does  not  bring  palpably  before  his  vision  the  scene  related. 

As  a  piece  of  this  fine  word  painting  we  quote  the  following. 

«*  The  near  approach  of  the  strange  gondola  now  attracted  the 
whole  attention  qf  the  old  man.  It  came  swiftly  towards  him, 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPEE.          31 

Impelled  by  six  strong  oars,  and  his  eye  turned  feverishly  in  the 
direction  of  the  fugitive.  Jacopo,  with  a  readiness  that  necessity 
and  long  practice  rendered  nearly  instinctive,  had  taken  a  direction 
which  blended  his  Wake  in  a  line  with  one  of  those  bright  streaks 
that  the  moon  drew  on  the  water,  and  which,  by  dazzling  the  eye, 
effectually  concealed  the  objects  within  its  width.  When  the 
fisherman  saw  that  the  Bravo  had  disappeared,  he  smiled  and 
seemed  at  ease. 

"  *  Aye,  let  them  come  here,'  he  said ;  '  it  Will  give  Jacopo  more 
time.  I  doubt  not  the  poor  fellow  hath  struck  a  blow  since  quit 
ting  the  palace  that  the  council  will  not  forgive !  The  sight  of 
gold  hath  been  too  strong,  and  he  hath  offended  those  who  have 
so  long  borne  with  him.  God  forgive  me,  that  T  have  had  com 
munion  with  such  a  man !  but  when  the  heart  is  heavy,  the  pity  of 
even  a  dog  will  warm  our  feelings.  Few  care  for  me  now,  or  the 
friendship  of  such  as  he  could  never  have  been  welcome.' 

"  Antonio  ceased,  for  the  gondola  of  the  state  came  with  a  rush 
ing  noise  to  the  side  of  his  own  boat,  where  it  was  suddenly 
stopped  by  a  backward  sweep  of  the  oars.  The  water  was  still  in 
ebullition,  wThen  a  form  passing  into  the  gondola  of  the  fisherman, 
the  larger  boat  shot  away  again  to  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred 
feet,  and  remained  at  rest. 

"  Antonio  witnessed  this  movement  in  silent  curiosity  ;  but  when 
he  saw  the  gondoliers  of  the  state  lying  on  their  oars,  he  glanced 
his  eye  again  furtively  in  the  direction  of  Jacopo,  saw  that  all  was 
safe,  and  faced  his  companion  with  confidence.  The  brightness  of 
the  moon  enabled  him  to  distinguish  the  dress  and  aspect  of  a 
bare-foot  Carmelite.  The  latter  seemed  more  confounded  than  his 
companion,  by  the  rapidity  of  the  movement,  and  the  novelty  of  his 
situation.  Notwithstanding  his  confusion,  however,  an  evident 
look  of  wonder  crossed  his  mortified  features  when  he  first  beheld 
the  humbled  condition,  the  thin  and  whitened  locks,  and  the  gene- 


32  JAMES     FENIMORE     COOPEE. 

nil  air  arid  bearing  of  the  old  man  with  whom  he  now  found 
himself. 

« '  Who  art  thou  ?'  escaped  him,  in  the  impulse  of  surprise. 

" '  Antonio  of  the  Lagunes !  A  fisherman  that  owes  much  to  St. 
Anthony,  for  favors  little  deserved.' 

" « And  why  hath  one  like  thee  fallen  beneath  the  senate's  dis 
pleasure  V 

"  <  I  am  honest  and  ready  to  do  justice  to  others.  If  that  offend 
the  great,  they  are  men  more  to  be  pitied  than  envied.' 

" '  The  convicted  are  always  more  disposed  to  believe  themselves 
unfortunate  than  guilty.  The  error  ia  fatal,  and  it  should  be 
eradicated  from  the  mind,  lest  it  lead  to  death.' 

" '  Go  tell  this  to  the  patricians.  They  have  need  of  plain  coun 
sel,  and  a  warning  from  the  church.' 

" '  My  son,  there  is  a  pride  and  anger,  and  perverse  heart  in  thy 
replies.' 

*  *          *          *         *         ***** 

" '  Father,'  he  said,  when  a  long  and  earnest  look  was  ended, 
'there  can  be  little  harm  in  speaking  truth  to  one  of  thy  holy 
office.  They  have  told  thee  there  was  a  criminal  here  in  the 
Lagunes,  who  hath  provoked  the  anger  of  St.  Mark  ?' 

********** 

"  '  Thou  speakest  of  another ! — thou  art  not  then  the  criminal 
they  seek  ?' 

" '  I  am  a  sinner,  like  all  born  of  woman,  reverend  Carmelite,  but 
my  hand  hath  never  held  any  other  weapon  than  the  good  sword 
with  which  I  struck  the  infidel.  There  was  one  lately  here,  that  I 
grieve  to  add,  cannot  say  this  !' 

" <  And  he  is  gone  ]' 

*  *          *          *          ****** 

"  The  Carmelite,  who  had  arisen,  instantly  reseated  himself,  like 
one  actuated  by  a  strong  impulse. 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  33 

" '  I  thought  he  had  already  been  far  beyond  pursuit,'  he  muttered, 
unconsciously  apologizing  for  his  apparent  haste. 

"  «  He  is  over  bold,  and  I  fear  he  will  row  back  to  the  canals,  in 
which  case  you  might  meet  nearer  to  the  city — or  there  may  be 
more  gondolas  of  the  state  out — in  short,  father,  thou  wilt  be  more 
certain  to  escape  hearing  the  confession  of  a  Bravo,  by  listening  to 
that  of  a  fisherman,  who  has  long  wanted  an  occasion  to  acknow 
ledge  his  sins.' 

"  Men  who  ardently  wish  the  same  result,  require  few  words  to 
understand  each  other.  The  Carmelite  took,  intuitively,  the  mean 
ing  of  his  companion,  and  throwing  back  his  cowl,  a  movement 
that  exposed  the  countenance  of  Father  Anselmo,  he  prepared  to 
listen  to  the  confession  of  the  old  man. 

" '  Thou  art  a  Christian,  and  one  of  thy  years  hath  not  to  learn 
the  state  of  mind  that  becometh  a  penitent,'  said  the  monk,  when 
each  was  ready. 

" '  I  am  a  sinner,  father ;  give  me  counsel  and  absolution,  that  I 
may  have  hope.' 

"  '  Thy  will  be  done — thy  prayer  is  heard— approach  and  kneel.' 
"  Antonio,  who  had  fastened  his  line  to  his  seat,  and  disposed  of 
his  net  with  habitual  care,  now  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and  took 
his  station  before  the  Carmelite.  His  acknowledgments  of  error 
then  began.  Much  mental  misery  clothed  the  language  and  ideas 
of  the  fisherman  with  a  dignity  that  his  auditor  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  find  in  men  of  his  class.  A  spirit  so  long  chastened 
by  suffering  had  become  elevated  and  noble.  He  related  his  hopes 
for  the  boy,  the  manner  in  which  they  had  been  blasted  by  the 
unjust  and  selfish  policy  of  the  state,  his  different  efforts  to 
procure  the  release  of  his  grandson,  and  his  bold  expedients  at  the 
regatta,  and  the  fancied  nuptials  with  the  Adriatic.  When  he  had 
thus  prepared  the  Carmelite  to  understand  the  origin  of  his  sinful 
passions,  which  it  was  now  his  duty  to  expose,  he  spoke  of  those 


34  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

passions  themselves,  and  of  their  influence  on  a  mind  that  was 
ordinarily  at  peace  with  mankind.  The  tale  was  told  simply  and 
without  reserve,  but  in  a  manner  to  inspire  respect,  and  to  awaken 
powerful  sympathy  in  him  who  heard  it. 

"  *  And  these  feelings  thou  didst  indulge  against  the  honored  and 
powerful  of  Venice !'  demanded  the  monk,  affecting  a  severity  he 
could  not  feel. 

"  '  Before  my  God  do  I  confess  the  sin !  In  bitterness  of  heart 
I  cursed  them ;  for  to  me  they  seemed  men  without  feeling 
for  the  poor,  and  heartless  as  the  marble  of  their  own  palaces.' 

"  '  Thou  knowest  that  to  be  forgiven  thou  must  forgive.  Dost 
thou,  at  peace  with  all  of  earth,  forget  this  wrong,  and  canst  thou, 
in  charity  with  thy  fellows,  pray  to  Him  who  died  for  the  race,  in 
behalf  of  those  who  have  injured  thee  ?' 

"  Antonio  bowed  his  head  on  his  naked  breast,  and  he  seemed  to 
commune  with  his  soul. 

" '  Father,'  he  said,  in  a  rebuked  tone, '  I  hope  I  do.' 

" '  Thou  must  not  trifle  with  thyself  to  thine  own  perdition. 
There  is  an  eye  in  yon  vault  above  us  which  pervades  space,  and 
which  looks  into  the  inmost  secrets  of  the  heart.  Canst  thou  par 
don  the  error  of  the  patricians,  in  a  contrite  spirit  for  thine  own 
sins?' 

" '  Holy  Maria,  pray  for  them,  as  I  now  ask  mercy  in  their  behalf! 
Father,  they  are  forgiven.' 

" '  Amen !' 

"The  Carmelite  arose  and  stood  over  the  kneeling  Antonio, 
with  the  whole  of  his  benevolent  countenance  illuminated  by  the 
moon.  Stretching  his  arms  towards  the  stars,  he  pronounced  the 
absolution  in  a  voice  that  was  touched  with  pious  fervor.  The 
upward  expectant  eye,  with  the  withered  lineaments  of  the  fisher 
man,  and  the  holy  calm  of  the  monk,  formed  a  picture  of  resig 
nation  and  hope  that  angels  would  have  loved  to  witness. 


JAMES      FENIMOKE      COOPER.  35 

" '  Amen !  amen !'  exclaimed  Antonio,  as  he  arose,  crossing  him 
self.  '  St.  Anthony  and  the  Virgin  aid  me  to  keep  these  reso 
lutions  !' 

" '  I  will  not  forget  thee,  my  son,  in  the  offices  of  holy  church. 
Receive  my  benediction,  that  I  may  depart.' 

"  Antonio  again  bowed  his  knee,  while  the  Carmelite  firmly  pro 
nounced  the  words  of  peace.  When  this  last  office  was  performed, 
and  a  decent  interval  of  mutual  but  silent  prayer  had  passed,  a 
signal  was  given  to  summon  the  gondola  of  the  state.  It  came 
rowing  down  with  great  force,  and  was  instantly  at  their  side. 
Two  men  passed  into  the  boat  of  Antonio,  and  with  officious  zeal 
assisted  the  monk  to  resume  his  place  in  that  of  the  republic. 

" '  Is  the  penitent  shrived  V  half  whispered  one,  seemingly  the 
superior  of  the  two. 

" '  Here  is  an  error.  He  thou  seek'st  has  escaped.  This  aged 
man  is  a  fisherman  named  Antonio,  and  one  who  cannot  have 
gravely  offended  St.  Mark.  The  Bravo  hath  passed  towards  the 
island  of  San  Giorgio,  and  must  be  sought  elsewhere.' 

"  The  officer  released  the  person  of  the  monk,  who  passed  quickly 
beneath  the  canopy,  and  he  turned  to  cast  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
features  of  the  fisherman.  The  rubbing  of  a  rope  was  audible, 
and  the  anchor  of  Antonio  was  lifted  by  a  sudden  jerk.  A  heavy 
plashing  of  the  water  followed,  and  the  two  boats  shot  away 
together,  obedient  to  a  violent  effort  of  the  crew.  The  gondola  of 
the  state  exhibited  its  usual  number  of  gondoliers  bending  to  their 
toil,  with  its  dark  and  hearse-like  canopy,  but  that  of  the  fisherman 
was  empty. 

"  The  sweep  of  the  oars  and  the  plunge  of  the  body  of  Antonio 
had  been  blended  in  a  common  wash  of  the  surge.  When  the 
fisherman  came  to  the  surface,  after  his  fall,  he  was  alone  in  the 
centre  of  the  vast  but  tranquil  sheet  of  water.  There  might  have 
been  a  glimmering  of  hope,  as  he  rose  from  the  darkness  of  the 


36  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

sea  to  the  bright  beauty  of  that  moon-lit  night.  But  the  sleeping- 
domes  were  too  far  for  human  strength,  and  the  gondolas  were 
sweeping  madly  towards  the  town.  He  turned,  and  swimming 
feebly,  for  hunger  and  previous  exertion  had  undermined  his 
strength,  he  bent  his  eye  on  the  dark  spot  which  he  had  constantly 
recognised  as  the  boat  of  the  Bravo. 

"  Jacopo  had  not  ceased  to  watch  the  interview  with  the  utmost 
intentness  of  his  faculties.  Favored  by  position,  he  could  see 
without  being  distinctly  visible.  He  saw  the  Carmelite  pronouncing 
the  absolution,  and  he  witnessed  the  approach  of  the  larger  boat. 
He  heard  a  plunge  heavier  than  that  of  falling  oars,  and  he  saw 
the  gondola  of  Antonio  towing  away  empty.  The  crew  of  the 
republic  had  scarcely  swept  the  Lagunes  with  their  oar-blades, 
before  his  own  stirred  the  water. 

" '  Jacopo  ! — Jacopo  P  came  fearfully  and  faintly  to  his  ears. 

"  The  voice  was  known,  and  the  occasion  thoroughly  understood. 
The  cry  of  distress  was  succeeded  by  the  rush  of  the  water,  as  it 
piled  before  the  beak  of  the  Bravo's  gondola.  The  sound  of  the 
parted  element  was  like  the  sighing  of  a  breeze.  Ripples  and 
bubbles  were  left  behind,  as  the  driven  scud  floats  past  the  stars, 
and  all  those  muscles  which  had  once  before  that  day  been  so  finely 
developed  in  the  race  of  the  gondoliers,  were  now  expanded,  seem 
ingly  in  twofold  volumes.  Energy  and  skill  were  in  every  stroke, 
and  the  dark  spot  came  down  the  streak  of  light,  like  the  swallow 
touching  the  water  with  its  wing. 

" '  Hither,  Jacopo — thou  steerest  wide  !* 

"  The  beak  of  the  gondola  turned,  and  the  glaring  eye  of  the 
Bravo  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  fisherman's  head. 

"  *  Quickly,  good  Jacopo, — I  fail !' 

"  The  murmuring  of  the  water  again  drowned  the  stifled  words. 
The  efforts  of  the  oar  were  phrensied,  and  at  each  stroke  the  light 
gondola  appeared  to  rise  from  its  element 


JAMES  FEN I MORE   COOPER.          37 

" '  Jacopo — hither — dear  Jacopo  !v 

" '  The  mother  of  God  aid  thee,  fisherman ! — I  come.9 

"  *  Jacopo — the  "boy ! — the  boy  !' 

"  The  water  gurgled ;  an  arm  was  visible  in  the  air,  and  it  disap 
peared.  The  gondola  drove  upon  the  spot  where  the  limb  had 
just  been  visible,  and  a  backward  stroke,  that  caused  the  ashen 
blade  to  bend  like  a  reed,  laid  the  trembling  boat  motionless.  The 
furious  action  threw  the  Lagune  into  ebullition,  but,  when  the  foam 
subsided,  it  lay  calm  as  the  blue  and  peaceful  vault  it  reflected. 

" '  Antonio  !'  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  Bravo. 

"A  frightful  silence  succeeded  the  call.  There  was  neither 
answer  nor  human  form.  Jacopo  compressed  the  handle  of  his 
oar  with  fingers  of  iron,  and  his  own  breathing  caused  him  to 
start.  On  every  side  he  bent  a  phrensied  eye,  and  on  every  side  he 
beheld  the  profound  repose  of  that  treacherous  element  which  is  so 
terrible  in  its  wrath.  Like  the  human  heart,  it  seemed  to  sympa 
thize  with  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  midnight  view ;  but,  like  the 
human  heart,  it  kept  its  own  fearful  secrets." 


This  passage  is  so  fine  that  we  must  overlook  its  length  :  it 
is  necessary  to  enable  us  to  judge  how  perfectly  Mr.  Cooper 
succeeds  in  detached  parts.  The  style  of  this  passage  is  also 
unexceptionable,  and  the  slight  obscurity  in  the  narrative 
throws  a  gloom  over  the  scene  which  serves  as  the  chiar'- 
oscuro  of  the  picture. 

It  is  evident  from  this  novel,  unsuccessful  as  it  was,  that  the 
writer  had  faculties  for  writing  romances  of  a  more  general 
character  than  the  world  at  large  gave  him  credit  for,  and  that 
it  only  required  perseverance  to  be  as  successful  in  this  walk  of 
fiction  as  in  the  other.  If  preference  for  American  subjects 

2* 


88  JAMES     JTENIMORE      C  O  0  P  E  ft  , 

determined  Mr.  Cooper  to  abandon  this  path  and  return 
to  the  other,  he  should  not  complain  of  his  want  of  general 
popularity,  but  remain  content  with  his  fame,  which  is  suffi 
ciently  European  to  satisfy  even  an  ambitious  man. 

Forest  scenery  has  ever  been  a  favorite  with  all  classes 
of  readers  :  our  boyish  associations  cling  to  us  till  we  become 
the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon.  This  will  account  for  the 
delight  we  receive  from  those  pages  of  the  novelist  which 
dwell  on  woods,  old  castles,  and  the  pleasantest  side  of  ro 
mantic  life.  If  we  all  had  the  courage  to  speak  aloud  our 
thoughts,  or  our  ideal  occupations,  we  should  mid  the  world 
was  a  mass  of  madmen  ;  that  is,  according  to  the  present  test, 
The  maniac  is  one  who  speaks  and  acts,  as  all  of  us  think  and 
feel.  What  criminals  should  we  stand  forth  if  our  intentions 
or  wishes  were  realized  ?  This  may  appear  a  hard  thing  to  say 
of  human  nature,  but  it  is  the  truth ;  and  those  who  reflect  the 
most,  and  probe  their  own  natures  deepest,  know  this  too 
well  sometimes  for  their  peace  of  mind.  Should  this  view 
be  objected  to,  let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  it  is  insisted 
upon  repeatedly  in  the  Holy  Scriptures.  So  with  regard 
to  our  waking  dreams  :  what  a  romance  of  madness,  love, 
hatred,  and  vanity,  is  the  unspoken  life  of  every  man  : — un 
acted  certainly  in  deed,  but  thoroughly  acted  in  thought ; 
visible  not  to  men,  but  palpably  known  to  ourselves  and 
God !  Ah !  even  here  strongly  suspected  by  the  shrewdest 
of  our  fellow-creatures;  but  there  is  no  direct  evidence  to 
convict  us  before  the  world. 

Is  there  one  of  those  whose  eyes  may  rest  on  these  pages 
who  cannot  bear  testimony  to  the  truth  of  this  sketch  ?  It  is 


JAMES      S-EN1MORE     COOPER.  39 

to  tliis  early  dream  of  forest  wanderings  that  in  after  life  we 
derive  pleasure  from  works  of  fiction,  and  more  especially  from 
those  parts  which  remind  us  more  strongly  of  our  chivalric 
longings.  Who  has  not  in  many  a  tented  field  battled  for 
his  country?  Where  is  the  man  who  has  not  released 
his  lady-love  from  haunted  castle  ?  Ah !  even  the  fat  old 
man  who  opens  oysters  at  Florence's  has  had  his  vision 
of  love  and  beauty ;  and,  dear  reader,  where  is  the  absurdity 
of  his  having  had  these  delusions,  any  more  than  yourself? 
Leigh  Hunt  has  often  said,  that  every  man  had  a  strong 
suspicion  he  was  eminently  ridiculous  on  certain  occasions,  and 
yet  this  very  man  was  to  himself  his  own  hero :  thus  con 
firming  the  saying,  that  no  one  was  a  hero  in  the  eyes  of  his 
valet,  but  always  in  his  own. 

The  horror  of  an  event  is  often  formed  in  the  mind  by  the 
absurdity  of  the  same  under  somewhat  different  aspect.  We 
will  trespass  again  on  Leigh  Hunt  for  an  illustration.  He  told 
us  that  notwithstanding  all  he  had  read  arid  all  he  had  written 
on  the  horrors  of  war,  he  had  never  his  mind  filled  with 
the  perfect  idea  of  its  gigantic  lawlessness,  till  on  the  occasion 
of  a  review,  or  sham  fight,  during  the  Napoleontic  war. 

The  King  had  reviewed  the  Volunteers  on  Wimbledon 
Common  one  intensely  sultry  day,  and  as  part  of  the  regiment 
to  which  the  lively  author  of  "  Rimini"  belonged  was  marching 
home,  they  entered  some  little  village  near  the  scene  of  this 
mimic  slaughter.  They  had  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since 
morning,  and  the  corporeal  part  of  their  natures  was  becoming 
vociferous  for  sustenance.  On  a  sudden  they  beheld  a  baker 
carrying  a  large  basket  of  newly-baked  loaves  ;  veni,  vidi,  vici, 


40  JAMES     FENIMORE      COOPED, 

was  the  order  of  the  day ;  swift  as  thought  the  hapless  bakef 
was  overthrown,  his  basket  vanished  from  him,  and  ere  the 
bewildered  knight  of  the  oven  could  look  around  him  the 
contents  had  already  been  introduced  to  the  gastric  juice, 
and  were  undergoing  its  digestive  process.  Leigh  Hunt 
paused  to  survey  the  scene,  and  said,  "  Good  Heaven !  if 
in  a  peaceful  country  like  this  so  little  regard  is  paid 
to  the  laws  of  property,  what  on  earth  must  be  the  result 
when  a  brutal  and  maddened  soldiery  is  let  loose  upon  a 
defenceless  town  ?" 

While  we  are  on  this  subject,  the  mention  of  Leigh  Hunt's 
name  reminds  us  of  a  singular  anecdote  he  told  us  one  day, 
It  is  well  known  that  as  editor  of  the  Examiner  he  incited 
and  encouraged  Sir  Francis  Burdett  to  defy  the  House  of 
Commons  to  imprison  him.  It  is  not  so  well  known  that 
the  self-said  editor  of  the  Examiner  (in  his  capacity  of  volun 
teer  soldier)  helped  a  few  days  afterwards  to  take  him  ta 
the  Tower  of  London  for  following  his  advice. 

o 

We  remember  one  of  the  party  took  him  to  task  for 
this  apparent  contradiction,  if  not  treachery ;  but  he  defended 
himself  on  the  ground  that  he  was  right  in  his  capacity 
of  public  journalist  to  spirit  him  up  to  assist  the  liberty  of 
the  subject,  and  that  it  was  no  less  his  duty  on  the  other 
hand  as  a  soldier  to  obey  the  orders  of  his  superior  officer. 

After  this  digression  we  shall  enter  one  of  Mr.  Cooper's 
forests  and  refresh  our  readers'  attention. 

We  must  premise  that  this  is  by  no  means  one  of  his 
best  "  bits  of  painting ;"  still  it  has  all  the  characteristics  of 
his  style,  and  we  present  it,  being  the  first  that  comes  to  hand. 


JAMES     FENIMORE      COOPER.  41 

"  The  river  was  confined  between  high  and  cragged  rocks,  one  of 
which  impended  above  the  spot  where  the  canoe  rested.  As  these, 
again,  were  surmounted  by  tall  trees,  which  appeared  to  totter  on 
the  brows  of  the  precipice,  it  gave  the  stream  the  appearance  of 
running  through  a  deep  and  narrow  dell.  All  beneath  the  fantastic 
limbs  and  ragged  tree-tops,  which  were,  here  and  there,  dimly 
painted  against  the  starry  zenith,  lay  alike  in  shadowed  obscurity. 
Behind  them,  the  curvature  of  the  banks  soon  bounded  the  view, 
by  the  same  dark  and  wooded  outline  ;  but  in  front,  and  apparently 
at  no  great  distance,  the  water  seemed  piled  against  the  heavens 
whence  it  tumbled  into  caverns,  out  of  which  issued  those  sullen 
sounds  that  had  loaded  the  evening  atmosphere.  It  seemed,  in 
truth,  to  be  a  spot  devoted  to  seclusion,  and  the  sisters  imbibed  a 
soothing  impression  of  increased  security,  as  they  gazed  upon  its 
romantic,  though  not  unappalling  beauties.  A  general  movement 
among  their  conductors,  however,  soon  recalled  them  from  a  con 
templation  of  the  wild  charms  that  night  had  assisted  to  lend  the 
place,  to  a  painful  sense  of  their  real  peril. 

"  The  horses  had  been  secured  to  some  scattering  shrubs  that 
grew  in  the  fissures  of  the  rocks,  where,  standing  in  the  water,  they 
were  left  to  pass  the  night.  The  scout  directed  Heyward  and  his 
disconsolate  fellow  travellers  to  seat  themselves  in  the  forward  end 
of  the  canoe,  and  took  possession  of  the  other  himself,  as  erect 
and  steady  as  if  he  floated  in  a  vessel  of  much  firmer  materials. 
The  Indians  warily  retraced  their  steps  towards  the  place  they  had 
left,  when  the  scout,  placing  his  pole  against  a  rock,  by  a  powerful 
shove,  sent  his  frail  bark  directly  into  the  centre  of  the  turbulent 
stream.  For  many  minutes  the  struggle  between  the  light  bubble 
in  which  they  floated,  and  the  swift  current,  was  severe  and  doubt- 
'  fill.  Forbidden  to  stir  even  a  hand,  and  almost  afraid  to  breathe, 
lest  they  should  expose  the  frail  fabric  to  the  fury  of  the  stream, 


42  JAMES     ffEtflMORE      COOPER, 

the  anxious  passengers  watched  the  glancing  waters  in  feverish  sus 
pense.  Twenty  times  they  thought  the  whirling  eddies  were 
sweeping  them  to  destruction,  when  the  master-hand  of  their  pilot 
Would  bring  the  bows  of  the  canoe  to  stem  the  rapid,  and  their 
eyes  glanced  over  a  confused  mass  of  the  murmuring  element — so 
swift  was  the  passage  between  it  and  their  little  vessel.  A  long,  a 
vigorous,  and,  as  it  appeared  to  the  females,  a  desperate  effort, 
closed  the  scene.  Just  as  Alice  veiled  her  eyes  in  horror,  under 
the  impression  that  they  were  about  to  be  swept  within  the  vortex 
at  the  foot  of  the  cataract,  the  canoe  floated,  stationary,  at  the  side 
of  a  flat  rock,  that  lay  on  a  level  with  the  water." 

In  the  Leather-Stocking  Tales  we  have  the  complete  life 
of  Natty  Bumppo  more  elaborately  described  than  perhaps 
any  other  hero  of  romance ;  in  short,  a  sort  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  of  the  woods.  We  cannot  help  giving  to  this 
novel  the  fullest  measure  of  praise;  notwithstanding  that 
the  life  extends  through  fifteen  volumes,  we  read  the  dying 
scene  of  the  hero  with  regret. 

We  seem  to  be  really  losing  a  companion  with  whom 
we  have  had  many  journeyings — with  whom  we  have  had 
hair-breadth  adventures — whose  fidelity,  coolness,  sagacity,  and 
undaunted  courage,  have  helped  us  at  the  very  last  need — and 
with  whom  we  have  sat  'neath  the  forest's  edge,  or  in  the 
heart  of  the  wood,  chatting  and  discussing  many  a  pleasant  meal 
after  some  breathless  escape !  The  consistency  of  his  character 
is  so  admirably  preserved  that  we  almost  feel  his  existence  to 
be  a  personal  fact,  the  demonstration  of  which  would  be 
absurd. 

Much  has  been  said   by  critics  of  the  similarity  between 


•JAMES     FENlMORE      COOPER.  43 

a  novel  and  a  comedy,  and  a  romance  and  a  tragedy.  We 
think,  however,  the  difference  very  wide ;  being  no  less  than 
between  action  and  narration.  The  dramatist  includes  the 
novelist  and  the  romancist,  The  latter  may  eke  out  his  short 
comings  by  description,  as  a  man  in  an  equivocal  position  may 
explain  the  ambiguity  away,  and  stultify  to  a  certain  extent 
the  evidence  of  the  spectator's  senses.  But  in  a  dramatist  all 
must  be  plain  and  palpable;  there  is  no  interpreter  save 
the  spectator,  and  he  is  incapable  of  being  corrupted  by 
any  partisanship  beyond  his  own  feelings.  It  is  this  which 
renders  a  dramatist  so  rare  a  production  in  all  ages,  more 
especially  our  own,  while  novelists  are  as  plentiful  as  oysters. 

The  whole  mystery  lies  in  a  nutshell.  There  are  tendencies 
in  the  human  heart  which  require  a  certain  pabulum  to  satisfy, 
and  it  shows  a  considerable  knowledge  of  our  common  nature 
to  select  that  particular  one.  A  very  popular  author  must 
necessarily  be  a  man  of  great  sagacity.  A  keen  instinct 
is  indispensable  for  a  great  dramatist,  although  mere  play 
wrights  may  be  made  out  of  a  clever  selector  of  theatrical 
situations.  It  not  unfrequently  occurs  that  a  good  acting  play 
is  far  from  a  natural  representation,  and  sometimes  it  may  be 
diametrically  opposed  to  nature.  Whenever  a  dramatic  action 
is  startling  the  poet  has  failed  in  his  legitimate  result.  A  true 
dramatist  works  to  a  point ;  and  although  every  scene  should 
have  a  certain  unexpectedness  in  it,  so  as  to  keep  the  interest 
alive  and  create  an  appetite  for  the  denouement,  yet  the  climax 
should  be  artistically  reached  by  the  natural  -process  of  human 
passion,  and  not  vaulted  into  at  a  bound,  like  a  mountebank's 
trick. 


44  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER, 

"We  have  made  this  passing  allusion  to  action,  as  repre 
sented  or  narrated,  in  order  to  remark  that  Mr.  Cooper  is  not 
a  dramatic  writer,  even  in  the  narrative  ;  and,  as  a  proof, 
we  may  adduce  that  while  most  of  Scott's  stories  have 
been  dramatized,  we  are  not  aware  of  any  of  the  American's 
being  presented  in  that  shape  to  the  public  except  the  Pilot. 

We  feel  a  strong  conviction  that  a  great  success  might 
be  attained  by  a  writer  who  combined  dramatic  action  with 
romantic  description :  so  that  the  mind  would  be  filled  with 
the  idea,  and  the  heart  with  the  feeling. 

"We  are  anxious  to  avoid  much  quotation,  but  a  certain 
portion  is  indispensable  to  justify  ourselves  to  the  public. 
Many  of  our  opinions  will,  no  doubt,  be  considered  as  either 
those  of  the  partisan  or  the  foe.  We  wish  to  avoid  all 
onesidedness,  and  to  carry  the  greatest  truth-speakingness  into 
effect.  No  man  of  genius  need  fear  criticism,  however  boldly 
uttered  ;  it  is  the  charlatan  alone  who  fears  the  truth.  Ithu- 
riel's  spear  is  fatal  only  to  the  loathsome  toad.  To  return, 
however,  to  our  quotation.  That  Mr.  Cooper  can  write  simple 
and  touching  English  is  too  well  known  to  need  proof.  We 
give  the  following,  therefore,  merely  as  a  picture  of  quiet 
pathos,  producing  its  effects  by  the  subdued  tone  of  the 
narrative.  This  death  scene  is  admirably  in  keeping  with 
the  whole  life  of  Natty  Bumppo. 

" '  And  such  a  stone  you  would  have  at  your  grave  ?' 
"  I !  no,  no,  I  have  no  son  but  Hard-Heart,  and  it  is  little  that  an 
Indian  knows  of  White  fashions  and  usages.     Besides,  I  am  his 
debtor  already,  seeing  it  is  so  little  I  have  done  since  I  have  lived 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  45 

in  his  tribe.  The  rifle  might  bring  the  value  of  such  a  thing — but 
then  I  know  it  will  give  the  boy  pleasure  to  hang  the  piece  in  his 
hall,  for  many  is  the  deer  and  the  bird  that  he  has  seen  it  destroy. 
No,  no,  the  gun  must  be  sent  to  him  whose  name  is  graven  on  the 
lock  !' 

" '  But  there  is  one  who  would  gladly  prove  his  affection  in  the 
way  you  wish  ;  he,  who  owes  you  not  only  his  deliverance  from  so 
many  dangers,  but  who  inherits  a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude  from  his 
ancestors.  The  stone  shall  be  put  at  the  head  of  your  grave.' 

"  The  old  man  extended  his  emaciated  hand,  and  gave  the  other  a 
squeeze  of  thanks. 

"  '  I  thought  you  might  be  willing  to  do  it,  but  I  was  backward 
in  asking  the  favor,'  he  said, '  seeing  that  you  are  not  of  my  kin. 
Put  no  boastful  words  on  the  same,  but  just  the  name,  the  age,  and 
the  time  of  the  death,  with  something  from  the  holy  book ;  no 
more,  no  more.  My  name  will  then  not  be  altogether  lost  on  'arth ; 
I  need  no  more.' 

"  Middleton  intimated  his  assent,  and  then  followed  a  pause,  that 
was  only  broken  by  distant  and  broken  sentences  from  the  dying 
man.  He  appeared  now  to  have  closed  his  account  with  the  world, 
and  to  await  merely  for  the  final  summons  to  quit  it.  Middleton 
and  Hard-Heart  placed  themselves  on  the  opposite  sides  of  his  seat, 
and  watched  with  melancholy  solicitude  the  variations  of  his  coun 
tenance.  For  two  hours  there  was  no  very  sensible  alteration. 
The  expression  of  his  faded  and  time-worn  features  was  that  of  a 
calm  and  dignified  repose.  From  time  to  time  he  spoke,  uttering 
some  brief  sentence  in  the  way  of  advice,  or  asking  some  simple 
questions  concerning  those  in  whose  fortunes  he  still  took  a  friendly 
interest.  During  the  whole  of  that  solemn  and  anxious  period 
each  individual  of  the  tribe  kept  his  place  in  the  most  self-restrained 
patience.  When  the  old  man  spoke,  all  bent  their  heads  to  listen ; 


46  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

and  when  his  words  were  uttered,  they  seemed  to  ponder  on  their 
wisdom  and  usefulness. 

"  As  the  flame  drew  nigher  to  the  socket,  his  voice  was  hushed, 
and  there  were  moments  when  his  attendants  doubted  whether  he 
still  belonged  to  the  living.  Middleton,  who  watched  each  waver 
ing  expression  of  his  weather-beaten  visage  with  the  interest  of  a 
keen  observer  of  human  nature,  softened  by  the  tenderness  of  per 
sonal  regard,  fancied  he  could  read  the  workings  of  the  old  man's 
soul  in  the  strong  lineaments  of  his  countenance.  Perhaps  what  the 
enlightened  soldier  took  for  the  delusion  of  mistaken  opinion  did 
actually  occur,  for  who  has  returned  from  that  unknown  world  to 
explain  by  what  forms  and  in  what  manner  he  was  introduced  into 
its  awful  precincts!  Without  pretending  to  explain  what  must 
ever  be  a  mystery  to  the  quick,  we  shall  simply  relate  facts  as  they 
occurred. 

"  The  trapper  had  remained  nearly  motionless  for  an  hour.  His 
eyes,  alone,  had  occasionally  opened  and  shut.  When  opened,  his 
gaze  seemed  fastened  on  the  clouds  which  hung  around  the  west 
ern  horizon,  reflecting  the  bright  colors,  and  giving  form  and  love 
liness  to  the  glorious  tints  of  an  American  sunset.  The  hour — 
the  calm  beauty  of  the  season — the  occasion,  all  conspired  to  fill 
the  spectators  with  solemn  awe.  Suddenly,  while  musing  on  the 
remarkable  position  in  which  he  was  placed,  Middleton  felt  the 
hand  which  he  held  grasp  his  own  with  incredible  power,  and  the 
old  man,  supported  on  either  side  by  his  friends,  rose  upright  to  his 
feet.  For  a  single  moment  he  looked  about  him,  as  if  to  invite  all 
in  his  presence  to  listen  (the  lingering  remnant  of  human  frailty), 
and  then,  with  a  fine  military  elevation  of  his  head,  and  with  a 
voice  that  might  be  heard  in  every  part  of  that  numerous  assembly, 
he  pronounced  the  emphatic  word—'  Here  !' 

"A  movement  so  entirely  unexpected,  and  the  air  of  grandeur 


JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER.  47 

and  humility  which  were  so  remarkably  united  in  the  mien  of  the 
trapper,  together  with  the  clear  and  uncommon  force  of  his  utter- 
ranee,  produced  a  short  period  of  confusion  in  the  faculties  of  all 
present.  When  Middleton  and  Hard-Heart,  who  had  each  involun 
tarily  extended  a  hand  to  support  the  form  of  the  old  man,  turned 
to  him  again,  they  found  that  the  subject  of  their  interest  was 
removed  for  ever  beyond  the  necessity  of  their  care.  They  mourn 
fully  placed  the  body  in  its  seat,  and  Le  Balafre  arose  to  announce 
the  termination  of  the  scene  to  the  tribe.  The  voice  of  the  old 
Indian  seemed  a  sort  of  echo  from  that  invisible  world  to  which 
the  meek  spirit  of  the  trapper  had  just  departed. 

" '  A  valiant,  a  just,  and  a  wise  warrior  has  gone  on  the  path 
which  will  lead  him  to  the  blessed  grounds  of  his  people !'  he  said. 
'  When  the  voice  of  the  Wahcondah  called  him,  he  was  ready  to 
answer.  Go,  my  children ;  remember  the  just  chief  of  the  Pale 
faces,  and  clear  your  own  tracks  from  briers  !' 

"  The  grave  was  made  beneath  the  shade  of  some  noble  oaks.  It 
has  been  carefully  watched  to  the  present  hour  by  the  Pawnees  of 
the  Loup,  and  is  often  shown  to  the  traveller  and  the  trader  as  a  spot 
where  a  just  White  man  sleeps.  In  due  time  the  stone  was  placed 
at  its  head,  with  the  simple  inscription  which  the  trapper  had  him 
self  requested.  The  only  liberty  taken  by  Middleton  was  to  add, 
'  May  no  wanton  hand  ever  disturb  his  remains .'"' 

The  result  of  a  long  and  attentive  consideration  of  Mr. 
Cooper's  works  is,  that  he  is  without  doubt  a  man  of  a  shrewd 
and  vigorous  intellect,  self-willed  and  opinionated,  quick  and 
vindictive  in  his  feelings,  but  with  a  kind  and  generous  heart ; 
somewhat  too  fond,  perhaps,  of  brooding  over  wrongs  which, 
after  all,  may  be  only  imaginary,  and  requiring  more  deference 
from  the  world  than  it  is  apt  to  pay  to  a  Living  Author. 


48  JAMES      FENIMORE      COOPER. 

But,  with  regard  to  the  character  of  his  productions,  he  is 
deficient  in  imagination  and  fancy,  and  humor. 

Invention  he  certainly  possesses,  but  it  is  not  of  the  highest 
kind ;  his  powers  of  observation  are  strong,  but  not  universal, 
and  this  gives  an  air  of  monotony  to  many  of  his  works. 

He  also  takes  an  undue  advantage  of  certain  opportunities 
to  give  lectures,  and  hence  the  didactic  tone  of  many 
dialogues  interspersed  in  the  novels.  This  is  a  serious  defect, 
in  an  artistic  view ;  a  novelist  should  instruct  by  implication,  and 
argue  by  insinuation.  When  he  becomes  didactic  he  ceases  to 
be  romantic,  and  the  effect  is  neutralized. 


EALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  49 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


EMERSON  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  original  writers  the 
New  World  has  produced.  He  writes  least  like  an  Ameri 
can  of  any  author  we  have  read.  We  do  not  mean  this 
disparagingly  to  his  character  as  a  good  and  true  republican, 
but  to  show  our  opinion  of  his  greater  breadth  and  depth 
of  appreciation  than  is  generally  met  with  in  American 
authors. 

Mr.  Emerson's  fame  is  a  curious  compound  of  poet,  meta 
physician,  lecturer,  economist,  and  critic;  and  in  each  we 
think  him  first-rate. 

We  shall  give  his  poetry  the  preference  in  considering 
him  critically,  and  at  once  commence  by  complaining  of 
his  peculiar  metre  and  occasional  obscurity.  Mr.  Browning 
has  often  maintained  that  the  poet  has  a  perfect  and  unchal 
lengeable  right  to  place  the  thought  in  any  shape  he  pleases ; 
and  that  it  is  at  the  option  of  the  public  to  read  or  not, 
just  as  it  pleases ;  but  that  it  has  no  right  to  criticise,  seeing 
that  it  involves  the  apparent  absurdity  of  the  disciple  teaching 
the  master. 

With  all  respect  for  the  dictum  of  the  author  ©f  "  Sordello," 


60  RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON. 

we  shall  venture  to  give  our  opinion  on  the  poet  and  phi 
losopher,  and  with  as  great  a  belief  in  our  own  infalli 
bility  as  though  we  were  the  Pope,  or  even  the  editor  of 
a  Sunday  newspaper. 

Passing  over  the  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Emerson's  phraseology, 
we  cannot  avoid  remarking  what  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Carlyle 
once  said  on  reading  some  American  writer's  poetry,  "  that  he 
would  have  sworn  they  were  Mr.  Carlyle's  verses."  We  have 
often  heard  this  remarked,  but  we  never  could  see  the  justice 
of  classing  Mr.  Emerson  as  a  follower  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  We 
admit  readily  that  as  both  write  in  English,  and  as  both 
are  great  admirers  of  the  German  writers,  more  especially 
of  Richter,  a  certain  tinge  of  that  wonderful  man's  style 
of  thought  and  diction  is  naturally  preserved ;  but  it  is  more 
of  matter  than  manner,  and  partakes  more  of  admiration 
and  appreciation  than  of  imitation. 

There  is  a  singular  force  and  meaning  in  most  of  Emerson's 
emanations,  whether  in  prose  or  verse  ;  and  if  they  demand  a  j 
little  more  attention  on  the  reader's  part  than  the  gene 
rality  of  poetry,  it  arises  from  the  superiority  of  the  author, 
and  not  from  his  obscurity.  It  is  absurd  to  expect  an  author 
to  express  himself  in  the  old  style,  and  in  the  stale  formulae 
of  the  past.  Fresh  and  deep  thinkers  invent  a  form  of  con 
veying  the  thought  as  well  as  the  thought  itself.  Like  Mi 
nerva,  it  springs  clothed  from  the  head  of  Jove  :  garb  and 
form  are  simultaneous. 

In  the  "  Ode  to  Beauty "  Emerson  presses  much  meaning 
into  small  compass.  How  unlike  the  common-place  love 
verses  of  the  many  are  the  following !  It  is  truly  refreshing 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON.  51 

to   get  hold  of  a  strong   thinker,   however   rugged   may   be 
his  revelations. 

"  Who  gave  thee,  O  Beauty, 
The  keys  of  this  breast  ? 
Too  credulous  lover, 
Of  blest  and  unblest." 

Simplicity  is  here  carried  to  its  severity,  and  yet  the  poet 
breaks  through,  in  the  metaphorical  language  of  passion,  "  the 
keys  of  this  breast." 

How  directly  the  metaphysician  goes  into  the  heart  of 
the  subject ! 

"  Say,  when  in  lapsed  ages 

Thee  knew  I  of  old  1 
Or  what  was  the  service 

For  which  I  was  sold  ? 
When  first  my  eyes  saw  thee, 

I  found  me  thy  thrall, 
By  magical  drawing 

Sweet  Tyrant  of  all ! 
I  drank  at  thy  fountain 

False  waters  of  thirst, 
Thou  intimate  stranger, 

Thou  latest  and  first !" 

The  origin  of  the  love  of  beauty,  or  how  beauty  acts  upon 
the  human  heart,  is  truly  a  mystery,  so  deeply  set  in  the 
mystery  of  our  being,  as  to  baffle  poet  as  well  as  mere  meta 
physician;  but  as  the  fine  old  poet  of  Kydal  says,  many 


52  RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

revelations  come  on  us  in  snatches  and  glimpses  when  we 
least  expect  them,  and  so  with  these  short  questionings  we 
may  even  gain  somewhat  of  the  answer. 

"  Thy  dangerous  glances 

Made  women  of  men ; 
New-born  we  are  melting 
Into  nature  again." 

The  rich  carelessness  of  Emerson's  muse  is  well  developed  in 
these  lines : 

"  Lavish,  lavish  Promiser, 
Nigh  persuading  gods  to  err : 
Guest  of  million  painted  forms 
Which  in  turn  thy  glory  warms  : 
The  frailest  leaf,  the  mossy  bark, 
The  acorn's  cup,  the  rain-drop's  arc, 
The  swinging  spider's  silver  line, 
The  ruby  of  the  drop  of  wine, 
The  shining  pebble  of  the  pond, 
Thou  inscribest  with  a  bond 
In  thy  momentary  play 
Would  bankrupt  nature  to  repay." 

A  mere  versifier  would  have  made  those  images  into  a 
hundred  lines  ;  the  true  poet  condenses ;  the  elegant  writer 
diffuses,  till  it  becomes  an  atmosphere  rather  than  a  world. 

The  conclusion  of  this  beautiful  string  of  suggestive  ques 
tionings  and  half-answered  doubts  is  very  fine. 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  53 

"  All  that's  good  and  great  with  thee 
Works  in  close  conspiracy ; 
Thou  hast  bribed  the  dark  and  lonely 
To  report  thy  features  only, 
And  the  cold  and  purple  morning, 
Itself  with  thoughts  of  thee  adorning : 
The  leafy  dell,  the  city  mart, 
Equal  trophies  of  thy  art : 
E'en  the  flowing  azure  air 
Thou  hast  touched  for  my  despair. 
And  if  I  languish  into  dreams, 
Again  I  meet  thy  ardent  beams, 
Queen  of  things.     I  dare  not  die 
In  Being's  deep,  past  ear  and  eye, 
Lest  thee  I  find  the  same  deceiver, 
And  be  the  sport  of  fate  for  ever. 
Dreud  Power,  but  dear !  if  God  thou  be, 
Unmake  me  quite,  or  give  thyself  to  me." 

There  is  nothing  puling  in  these  verses.  A  thorough  mas 
tery  of  the  meaning  contained  in  them  is  as  good  a  lesson  of 
mental  logic  as  we  need  desire,  and  sharpens  the  intellect, 
as  well  as  delights  the  poetical  taste. 

Mr.  Emerson  has,  in  some  bold,  clear  lines,  summed  up  his 
definition  of  true  poetry. 

"  TO   MERLIN. 

"  Thy  trivial  harp  will  never  please, 

Or  fill  my  craving  ear : 
Its  chords  should  ring  as  blows  the  breeze, 
3 


54  RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

Free,  peremptory,  and  clear. 
No  jingling  serenader's  art, 

Nor  treble  of  piano  strings, 
Can  make  the  wild  blood  start 

In  its  mystic  springs ! 
The  kingly  bard 

Must  strike  the  chords  rudely  and  hard, 
As  with  hammer,  or  with  mace, 

That  they  may  render  back. 
Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 
There  was  never  mystery, 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers ; 
Was  never  secret  history, 

But  birds  told  it  in  the  bowers. 
The  harvest  from  the  field, 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song." 

We  are  quite  aware  how  seldom  casual  readers  pause 
long  enough  over  poetry  to  find  out  all  its  meaning ;  but  the 
meaning  and  the  power  are  there,  and  the  reader,  not  the 
poet,  is  deficient. 

Mr.  Emerson's  power  has  not  its  foundation  in  the  human 
heart :  the  roots  of  his  being  are  in  the  intellect.  Conse 
quently  he  is  deficient  in  one  of  the  two  great  elements  of 
genius.  That  this  narrows  his  scope  is  too  evident  to  need 
anything  beyond  the  mere  statement. 


RALPH     WALDO      EMERSON.  65 

We  will  give  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  want  of  power  to 
rouse  the  feelings.  It  is  some  verses  he  has  written  on  the 
death  of  a  little  child.  Surely,  few  things  are  so  susceptible 
of  pathos  as  this ;  but  mark  how  hard,  dry,  and  metaphysical 
the  poet  is. 

"ON   THE    DEATH   OF   A   CHILD. 

"  Returned  this  day,  the  south  wind  searches, 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches, 

But  finds  not  the  budding  man ; 
Nature  who  lost  him,  cannot  remake  him, 
Fate  let  him  fall,  fate  can't  retake  him ; 

Nature,  fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain." 

An  American  critic  well  observes  on  this,  "that  the  voice 
of  lamentation  is  lost  in  a  vague  speculation  on  fate,  inter 
esting  only  to  the  intellect."  It  is  difficult  to  find  a  subject 
more  capable  of  touching  regrets  than  the  death  of  a  child, 
and  still  more  difficult  to  find  a  poet  who  has  so  com 
pletely  failed  in  awaking  one  tender  memory. 

We  shall  take  advantage  of  this  circumstance  to  contrast 
several  poets  under  the  same  inspiration,  and  mark  how  dif 
ferent  are  all  their  moods.  Nevertheless,  all  except  Emerson 
have  the  chief  weight  on  the  human  heart. 

Wordsworth,  in  his  lament  for  a  daughter  "  Dead  and 
gone,"  puts  the  regrets  of  memory  into  an  old  man's  mouth. 
Although  years  have  passed  since  the  blow  fell,  how  fresh 
the  wound  still  remains  ! 


56  RALPH     WALDO      E  M  E  R  S  0  ff  « 

"  Our  work,  said  I,  was  well  begun, 

Then  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought. 

"  A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop, 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain  top, 
To  me  he  made  reply : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind, 
A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  With  rod  and  line  I  'sued  the  sport, 

Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And  coming  to  the  church,  stopped  short, 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale, 
And  then  she  sang — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay, 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more, 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before." 


And  in  another  poem,  how  truly  he  touches  the  tenderest 
portion  of  the  heart,  when  lie  says  : 


to 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  57 

"  If  there  is  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth." 

We  turn  from  this  strain  of  pure  musical  pathos, 
"  Bringing  the  tears  to  the  dim  eyes," 


another  fine  burst  of  natural  sorrow ;  more  sorrowful,  inas 
much  as  Byron  mixed  up  less  natural  objects  than  Words 
worth  in  his  laments. 

"  There  have  been  tears,  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing  had  I  such  to  give ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive, 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  spring 
Came  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turned  from  all  she  brought,  to  all  she  could  not  bring." 

An  English  poet  has  touched  upon  the  same  subject ; 
as  another  illustration  of  the  subject  we  quote  it.  We  cannot 
here  avoid  remarking,  that  a  very  interesting  volume  might 
be  made  of  selections  from  the  works  of  the  most  eminent 
poets  containing  the  expression  of  parallel  feelings. 

"  ON    A   WITHERED    FLOWER. 

"  Oh,  wondrous  power  of  thought, 
This  faded  flower  has  brought, 


58  RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

Full  on  my  mind  one  pleasant  day  in  spring. 

Once  more  the  wind's  sweet  breath 

Wakes  from  its  silent  death, 
And  that  long-perished  bird  once  more  I  hear  it  sing. 

"  I  feel  a  bright  form  stand, 

One  of  the  seraph  band, 
Close  at  my  side  as  in  the  tunes  gone  by. 

Once  more  Ms  little  feet 

With  my  long  steps  compete, 
I  walk  along,  nor  turn  aside  mine  eye. 

"  And  now  a  mist  of  light 

Grows  stronger  in  my  sight, 
Shaping  itself  into  a  form  most  dear. 

Features  I  deemed  had  gone 

Once  more  I  gaze  upon, 
My  child — my  buried  child — I  know  that  you  are  here." 

^  In  subjects  partaking  of  a  more  artificial  nature  our  poet 
is  more  at  home,  and  there  we  can  award  him  high  praise. 
There  is  a  spirit  in  the  following  worthy  Herrick,  we  had 
almost  said  Anacreon. 

"THE  HUMBLE  BEE. 

"  Burly,  dozing,  humble  bee} 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Fur-off  heats  thro'  seas  to  seek  ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone ! 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON 

Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines : 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

"  Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

Joy  of  thy  dominion  ; 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 

Swimmer  thro'  the  waves  of  air  ; 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 

Epicurean  of  June : 

Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 

Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, 

All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze, 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  the  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone, 

Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers, 

Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 

In  Indian  wildernesses  found : 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  hid-like  pleasure. 

"  Aught  unsavory,  or  unclean, 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen : 
But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple  sap,  and  daffodils, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine,  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catch-fly,  adder's  tongue, 
And  brier-roses  dwelt  among : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

"Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat; 

When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast ' 

Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 

Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 

Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 

Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous." 


RALPH     WALDO      EMERSON.  61 

the  fancy ;  but,  nevertheless,  this  will  always  be  considered  a 
gem  of  delightful  composition. 

We  must  now  turn  from  Mr.  Emerson's  poetry  to  his 
prose,  if  we  may  use  such  a  word,  for  the  peculiarity  of 
his  mind  is  almost  always  to  be  poetical.  Many  of  his 
critics  contend  that  his  finest  thoughts  are  in  his  essays, 
and  that  the  tone  of  his  mind  is  essentially  rhapsodical. 
If  we  concede  this,  we  must  bargain  for  our  definition  of 
a  rhapsody.  Many  persons  class  Pindar's  odes  in  that  cate 
gory,  but  Coleridge  and  others  have  declared  that  they  only 
appear  so  to  feeble  and  illogical  minds.  It  is  granted  that 
the  links  of  connexion  from  thought  to  thought  are  at 
longer  intervals,  just  as  giants  take  greater  strides  than  dwarfs, 
but  the  sequence  is  as  regular  as  the  pace  of  a  tortoise.  It 
is  very  usual  to  hear  common-place  men  accuse  loftier  intel 
lects  of  being  flighty  and  disconnected ;  but  it  would  be 
as  absurd  for  the  snail  to  charge  the  race-horse  with  irregu 
larity  in  its  steps,  because  its  bounds  are  too  wide  for  its 
microscropic  vision.  The  connecting  relations  are  also  so 
subtle,  in  many  arguments,  that  the  gross-sighted  mass  of 
readers  cannot  see  them  ;  and,  under  the  blinding  influence 
of  their  defective  vision,  they  deny  the  existence  of  the  chain. 

We  remember  Coleridge  once  illustrated  this  very  happily 
by  the  first  Olympiad,  and  established  the  point  to  the  satis 
faction  of  several  distinguished  critics. 

When  another  accuses  a  man  of  being  unintelligible,  it 
generally  only  means  that  he  does  not  understand  him.  So 
far  from  being  a  reproach  to  the  poet,  it  is  a  confession 
of  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the  critic.  Were  it  not  so, 


62  RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON. 

the  mysteries  of  the  Trinity  might  be  turned  against  itself; 
the  secret  of  existence  would  be  considered  as  conclusive 
evidence  against  vitality,  and  all  the  spiritual  creation  ignored 
at  a  blow. 

Judging  Emerson  by  this  standard,  we  feel  bound  to  say 
that  we  consider  him  a  consistent  and  logical  writer.  That 
his  style  is  somewhat  involved  we  readily  admit,  but  there 
is  a  force  and  condensation  about  it  that  fixes  it  on  the 
mind.  To  be  sure,  we  cannot  run  and  read  it  as  we  run, 
but  it  was  not  intended  for  a  novel  or  a  book  of  gossip.  It 
is  a  serious  attempt  to  pass  his  knowledge  into  the  masses ; 
to  give  to  the  million  who  do  not  and  will  not  think,  the 
result  of  labors  of  the  one  who  does.  We  must  not  look 
for  flippancy  of  style,  any  more  than  frivolity  of  thought, 
Philosophy  is  a  solemnity,  not  a  jest ;  and  Emerson  has  very 
little  of  Rabelais  or  Democritus  in  his  composition. 

Mr.  Emerson's  first  speech  to  the  public  was  a  small 
volume  called  "Nature,"  which  he,  in  setting  out,  defines 
as,  "  All  which  philosophy  distinguishes  as  the  t  NOT  ME  ;' 
that  is,  both  nature  and  art,  all  other  men,  and  my  own 
body."  He  defines  a  lover  of  nature  as  one  "  whose  inward 
and  outward  senses  are  still  truly  adjusted  to  each  other, 
who  has  retained  the  spirit  of  infancy  even  into  the  era 
of  manhood" 

The  following  description  of  his  own  feelings  in  the  presence 
of  Nature  is  very  characteristic. 

\In  good  health,  the  air  is  a  cordial  of  incredible  virtue. 
Crossing  a  bare  common,  in  snow  puddles,  at  twilight,  under 
a  clouded  sky,  without  having  in  my  thoughts  any  occurrence 


BALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  63 

of  special  good  fortune,  I  have  enjoyed  a  perfect  exhilaration  ; 
almost  I  fear  to  think  how  glad  I  am" 

As  a  companion  to  this  moral  of  self-revelation,  we  give : — 
"  Nature  always  wears  the  colors  of  the  spirit.  To  a 
man  laboring  under  calamity,  the  heat  of  his  own  fire  hath 
sadness  in  it ;  then  there  is  a  kind  of  contempt  of  the  land 
scape  felt  by  him  who  has  just  lost  by  death  a  dear  friend : 
the  sky  is  less  grand  as  it  shuts  down  over  less  worth  in 
the  population." 

The  last  line  is  a  specimen  of  Emerson's  prose  "concetti" 
(to  use  the  Italian  word,  instead  of  the  English  word  conceit), 
which  has  a  conventional  sound  we  do  not  like  to  apply  to 
so  true  a  man  as  our  author.  We  doubt  if  any  human 
being  under  the  affliction  predicated  ever  had  his  feelings 
modified  by  that  thought.  The  root  of  grief  is  in  the  heart, 
and  not  in  the  mind.  We  use  the  mind  as  distinct  from 
intellect,  which  we  consider  as  the  union  of  brain  and  heart, 
thought  and  feeling.  It  was  in  this  manner  that  Coleridge 
always  insisted  upon  the  incorporation  of  goodness  into  great 
ness  :  he  never  would  allow  any  man  to  be  great  without 
he  was  good ;  he  might  have  mind,  but  not  intellect.  These 
terms  have  been  so  often  confounded  that  they  are  often 
mistaken  as  synonymous ;  but  we  have  a  great  faith  in  the 
economy  of  nature.  Not  even  a  word  is  wasted,  and  the 
fact  of  two  words  shows  they  are  different  things.  No  two 
men  out  of  the  whole  human  race  have  ever  been  precisely 
alike,  however  much  they  might  have  resembled  each  other ; 
there  are  shades  of  difference  which  rendered  them  as  distinct 
as  Hercules  and  Hecuba.  And  in  like  manner,  no  two  words 


(54  RALPH     WALDO      EMERSON. 

mean  precisely  the  same  thing:  a  perfect  synonym  is  an 
impossibility,  and  therefore,  as  a  facetious  philosopher  once 
said,  "  very  rarely  comes  to  pass  " — 

"  For  what's  impossible  can  never  be, 
And  therefore  very  rarely  comes  to  pass." 

But  it  is  needless  to  argue  the  point :  every  human  being 
has  had  the  affliction  of  losing  some  one  dear  to  him ;  we 
therefore  appeal  to  that  unerring  test  for  a  confirmation  of 
our  opinion. 

We  must  not,  however,  stop  to  criticise  Mr.  Emerson's 
peculiarities  of  thought  and  expression  in  detail,  otherwise 
we  should  weary  our  readers ;  we  shall,  therefore,  only  allude 
to  them  once  for  all  and  say,  that  it  forms  to  many  the 
chief  charm,  and  to  others  the  great  stumbling-block  of  their 
admiration  and  study. 

Let  us  take  another  thought  from  his  first  volume  : — 

u  The  misery  of  man  appears  like  children's  petulance,  when 
we  explore  the  steady  and  prodigal  provision  that  has  been  made 
for  his  support  and  delight  on  this  green  ball  which  floats  him 
through  the  heavens.  What  angels  invented  these  splendid  orna 
ments,  these  rich  conveniences,  this  ocean  of  air  above,  this  ocean 
of  water  beneath,  this  firmament  of  earth  between  1  This  zodiac 
of  lights — this  tent  of  dropping  clouds — this  striped  coat  of  cli 
mates — this  fourfold  year  of  beasts,  fire,  water,  stones,  and  corn, 
serve  him  :  the  field  is  at  once  his  floor — his  work-yard — his  play 
ground — his  garden — and  his  bed." 

We  know   of    few   books   more   full   of  suggestions   than 


RALPH     WALDO      EMERSON.  65 

Mr.  Emerson's,  and  we  could  desire  no  pleasanter  occupation 
than  compiling  a  volume  of  these  suggestive  hints.  We  feel 
quite  sure  it  would  be  an  acceptable  offering  to  the  American 
public. 

"  The  useful  arts  (says  Emerson)  are  but  reproductions,  or 
new  combinations  by  the  wit  of  man,  of  the  same  natural  bene 
factors.  He  no  longer  waits  for  favoring  gales,  but  by  means 
of  steam  realizes  the  fable  of  Eolus'  bag,  and  carries  the  two-and- 
thirty  winds  in  the  boiler  of  his  boat.  To  diminish  friction,  he 
paves  the  road  with  iron  bars,  and  mounting  a  coach  with  a 
shipload  of  men,  animals,  and  merchandise  behind  him,  he  darts 
through  the  country,  from  town  to  town,  like  an  eagle  or  a  swal 
low  through  the  air.  By  the  aggregate  of  these  aids,  how  is 
the  face  of  the  world  changed  from  the  era  of  Noah  to  that 
of  Napoleon!  The  private  poor  man  hath  cities,  ships,  canals, 
bridges,  built  for  him.  He  goes  to  the  post-office,  and  the  human 
race  run  on  his  errands ;  to  the  workshop,  and  the  human  race 
read  or  write  of  all  that  happens,  for  him ;  to  the  court-house, 
and  nations  repair  his  wrongs.  He  sets  his  house  upon  the 
road,  and  the  human  race  go  forth  every  morning,  and  shovel 
out  the  snow,  and  cut  a  path  for  him." 

The  little  volume  from  which  we  have  made  these  few 
extracts  excited  the  attention  of  many  men  of  eminence,  but 
its  non-adaptability  for  the  million  prevented  general  popu 
larity. 

After  the  publication  of  "Nature,"  he  contributed  to  a 
periodical  called  "  The  Dial,"  which  did  not  commercially 
succeed. 


66  RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON. 

In  this  magazine  appeared  several  of  his  poems,  and  his- 
"Three  Lectures  on  the  Times."  The  first  was  called  "The 
Introductory  ;"  the  second,  "  The  Conservative  ;"  and  the  last, 
"  The  Transcendentalist." 

For  many  of  the  chief  points  in  the  second  lecture  he  is 
indebted  to  Goethe.  Its  argument  is  to  prove  that  in  pro 
portion  as  we  grow  in  age,  wealth,  position,  and  power,  we 
become  conservative.  Many  authors  of  the  day  are  illus 
trations,  such  as  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Moore,  Lamb,  Goethe, 
Talfourd,  &c.  These  were  all  great  radicals  in  their  early 
days,  indeed  very  nearly  verging  on  socialism.  This  is  natural 
in  man.  When  young  and  poor  we  are  roused  to  activity : 
we  grow  old  and  rich,  and  consequently  yearn  for  repose. 

Reform  is  the  activity  of  nations ;  conservatism  its  repose ; 
and  aristocracy  its  indolence. 

His  third  essay  is  his  finest,  and  from  this  he  has  been 
so  frequently  accused  of  being  a  "  Transcendentalist."  No 
thing  is  so  easy,  and  nothing  so  unjust,  as  to  affix  a  stigma  to 
a  man  of  this  kind. 

The  enemies  of  progress  joyfully  catch  them,  and  an  air 
of  impracticability  or  absurdity  is  thrown  over  the  cause 
itself.  What  the  fool  cannot  understand,  and  the  knave  will 
not,  he  declares  to  be  either  absurd  or  unintelligible,  and 
the  masses  being  easily  led  believe  the  slander  without  inquir 
ing  for  themselves. 

It  is  the  fashion  of  the  world  to  confound  the  appearance 
with  the  subject ;  the  garb  with  the  form  ;  and  hence  the  cry 
of  Emerson's  unintelligibility. 

To   abuse  a  man  because   he   does  not  write  like   Joseph 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON.  67 

Addison  or  Samuel  Johnson  is  absurd  :  they  may  with  the 
same  reason  condemn  him  for  being  himself,  instead  of  some 
body  else.  It  is  the  criticism  of  the  fool.  Emerson  certainly 
has  a  style  more  marked  than  most  writers,  but  he  has  like 
wise  a  greater  individuality  of  thought  to  accompany  it. 
When  a  teacher  utters  profounder  thought  than  the  untaught 
have  been  accustomed  to  hear,  the  latter  accuse  him  of  being 
mystical  or  transcendental :  just  as  boys  of  the  lower  form 
grumble  at  Euclid,  and  abuse  their  tutor.  There  seems  some 
thing  galling  to  an  inferior  mind  in  the  confession  of  ignorance. 
It  appears  to  wound  self-love  or  egotism  more  than  any  other 
accusation.  The  generality  would  prefer  to  be  suspected  of 
knavery,  than  of  boobyism.  This  will  account  for  the  virulence 
of  the  blockhead :  to  surpass  him  in  genius  or  learning  is  to 
make  him  your  deadly  enemy.  A  warfare  is  always  waged  by 
the  dull  against  the  witty ;  they  have  the  worst  of  it,  and 
fools  though  they  are,  they  know  it :  the  alpha  and  omega  of 
dulness  is  to  this  extent,  no  more.  They  are  sensible  of  their 
stupidity.  We  admit  this  to  be  unpleasant,  but  it  is  unavoid 
able,  and  by  way  of  consolation  we  recommend  the  old  adage 
of— 

"  What  can't  be  cured, 
Must  be  endured." 

So  there's  an  end  of  the  matter,  and  they  had  better  rest 
in  silence  under  the  misfortune. 

We  remember  in  our  young  days  that  Lamb  was  attacked 
by  a  very  solemn  man  (who  only  wanted  the  fairy  head  of 
Bottom,  the  weaver,  to  be  the  "complete  animal"),  in  these 


08  RALPH     WALDO 

words:— "Mr.  Lamb,  you  are  always  aiming  at  being  witty, 
but  you  do  not  always  succeed."  The  old  humorist  replied, 
"  That's  better,  Mr.  ***,  than  you,  who  are  always  aiming  at 
being  dull,  and,  I  must  say,  you  invariably  succeed."  We 
agree  with  "  rare  old  Charles,"  that  it  is  better  to  aim  at  the 

highest  mark. 

On  the  subject  of  Transcendentalism  Emerson  well  ob 
serves  : — 

"  There  is  transcendentalism,  but  no  pure  transcendentalist :  that 
we  know  of  none  but  the  prophets  and  heralds  of  such  a  philosophy — 
that  all  who  by  strong  bias  of  nature  have  leaned  to  the  spiritual 
side  in  doctrine  have  stopped  short  of  their  goal.  We  have  had 
many  harbingers  and  forerunners,  but  of  a  purely  spiritual  life 
history  has  yet  afforded  no  example.  I  mean,  we  have  yet  no  man 
who  has  leaned  entirely  on  his  character,  and  eaten  angels'  food : 
who,  trusting  to  his  sentiments,  found  life  made  of  miracles  :  who, 
working  for  universal  aims,  found  himself  fed,  he  knew  not  how : 
clothed,  sheltered,  and  weaponed,  he  knew  not  how;  arid  yet  it 
was  done  by  his  own  hands:  only  in  the  instinct  of  the  lower 
animals  we  find  the  suggestion  of  the  methods  of  it,  and  something 
higher  than  our  understanding :  the  squirrel  hoards  nuts,  and  the 
bee  gathers  honey,  without  knowing  what  they  do,  and  they  are 
thus  provided  for  without  selfishness  or  disgrace." 

This  transcendentalism  is  evidently  founded  on  Christian 
Doctrine  ;  it  is  merely  a  paraphrase  of  Christ's  words,  "  Take 
no  thought  of  what  ye  shall  eat,  what  ye  shall  drink,  or  where 
withal  ye  shall  be  clothed  ;  but  do  these  things,  which  I 
command  ye,  and  all  the  rest  shall  be  added  unto  you." 

Every  new  doctrine,  when  first  preached,  sounds  like  a  tran- 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  69 

scendcntalism,  and  it  is  only  when  it  becomes  traditional  that  the 
mass  receive  it  unchallenged ;  then  any  additional  obscurity  is 
swallowed  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  another  place  he  says, 
"Transcendentalism  is  the  faith  proper  to  a  man  in  his 
integrity." 

This  is  the  pure  religion  of  regenerate  man,  or  of  man  in 
his  primal  state  ;  it  was,  doubtless,  the  faith  of  Eden. 

Now  the  discussion  lies  between  the  believers  in  the  com 
parative  perfectibility  of  man,  and  those  who  have  no  desire  to 
rise  into  a  loftier  sphere  ;  the  wing  and  the  wish  are  at  variance 
in  every  imperfect  nature,  and  so  far  as  physical  happiness  is  con 
cerned,  this  discrepancy  is  fatal. 

Mr.  Emerson,  in  the  next  place,  thus  discourses  of  "Pure 
Nature."  These  extracts  must  not  be  read  hastily,  but  well 
thought  over. 

"  Language  cannot  paint  it  with  his  colors.  It  is  too  subtle.  It 
is  undefmable,  unmeasurable,  but  we  know  that  it  pervades  and 

contains  us In  sickness,  in  languor,  give  us  a  strain  of 

poetry  or  a  profound  sentence,  and  we  are  refreshed.  .  .  .  See 
how  the  deep  divine  thought  demolishes  centuries  and  millenniums, 

and  makes  itself  present  through  all  ages A   thrill 

passes  through  all  men  at  the  reception  of  new  truth,  or  at  the 
performance  of  a  great  action,  which  comes  out  of  the  heart  of 
nature.  In  these  communications  the  power  to  see  is  not  separated 
from  the  will  to  do,  but  the  insight  proceeds  from  obedience,  and 
the  obedience  proceeds  from  a  joyful  perception." 

We  must  confess  here  that  we  cannot  do  justice  to  our 
author  by  picking  a  piece  here,  and  another  there,  as  each  sen- 


70  RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

tcnce  belongs  so  essentially  to  the  one  before,  and  the  other 
after,  that  we  are  nearly  misrepresenting  the  man,  instead  of 
presenting  him  to  our  readers.  What,  therefore,  we  must  do  for 
the  future  must  be  to  indicate  as  nearly  as  we  can,  the  idea  per 
vading  the  article  we  have  to  comment  on.  It  is  not,  however, 
an  easy  matter  to  do  this  with  the  next  essay,  "  Circles"  which 
we  will  pass  to  speak  of  the  next,  "  Intellect"  where  we  find 
the  same  difficulty.  We  go  to  the  next  one,  "  Art"  and  we 
still  find  it  as  difficult  to  give  the  leading  idea.  We  could  give 
sentences  without  number,  eloquent,  poetical,  golden,  but,  as 
we  have  already  given  a  number  from  this  little  volume  of 
essaj^s — sufficient,  we  think,  to  cause  the  reader  to  go  to  the 
Book  itself — once  for  all,  therefore,  we  must  refer  him  to  the 
fountain  head,  the  essays  themselves,  confident  that  he  will  be 
richly  rewarded  for  his  pains. 

.  Besides  these  Essays,  our  author  has  published  several  sepa 
rate  orations  and  lectures :  "  Man  Thinking,  an  Oration,"  "  An 
Address  delivered  at  Cambridge,"  "  Literary  Ethics,  an  Ora 
tion,"  "  The  Method  of  Nature,"  "  Man  the  Reformer,"  and 
"  The  Young  American."  We  select  a  few  sentences  from 
these. 

"  The  theory  of  Books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first  age 
received  into  him  the  world  around ;  brooded  thereon  ;  gave  it  the 
new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered  it  again.  It  came 
into  him— life ;  it  went  from  him — truth.  It  came  to  him— short 
lived  actions ;  it  went  from  him — immortal  thoughts.  It  came  to 
him— business ;  it  went  from  him— poetry.  It  was  dead  fact; 
now  it  is  quick  thought.  It  can  stand  and  it  can  go.  It  now 
endures,  it  now  flies,  it  now  inspires.  Precisely  in  proportion  to 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  71 

the  depth  of  mind  from  which  it  issued,  so  high  does  it  soar,  so 
long  does  it  sing. 

"  The  true  scholar  grudges  every  opportunity  of  action  passed  by 
as  a  loss  of  Power.  It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intel 
lect  moulds  her  splendid  products.  A  strange  process,  too,  this  by 
which  experience  is  converted  into  thought  as  a  mulberry  leaf  is 
converted  into  satin.  The  manufacture  goes  forward  at  all  hours." 

Mark  the  more  than  morning  glow  thrown  over  the  opening 
of  "  the  Address." 

"  In  this  refulgent  summer  it  has  been  a  luxury  to  draw  the 
breath  of  life.  The  grass  grows,  the  buds  burst ;  the  meadow  is 
spotted  with  fire  and  gold  in  the  tint  of  flowers ;  the  air  is  full  of 
birds,  and  sweet  with  the  breath  of  the  pine,  the  balm  of  Gilead, 
and  the  new  hay.  Night  brings  no  gloom  to  the  heart  with  its 
welcome  shade.  Through  the  transparent  darkness  pour  the  stars 
their  almost  spiritual  rays.  Man  under  them  seems  a  young  child, 
and  his  huge  globe  a  toy.  The  cool  night  bathes  the  world  as 
with  a  river,  and  prepares  his  eye  again  for  the  crimson  dawn. 
The  mystery  of  nature  was  never  displayed  more  happily.  The 
corn  and  the  wine  have  been  freely  dealt  to  all  creatures,  and  the 
never  broken  silence  with  which  the  old  bounty  goes  forward  has 
not  yielded  yet  one  word  of  explanation." 

The  Address,  of  which  this  is  the  opening,  did  not  please  the 
professors,  and  one  of  them  remonstrated.  We  give  Emerson's 
reply,  as  it  is  a  part  of  his  spiritual  history. 

"  What  you  say  about  the  Discourse  at  Divinity  College  is  just 
what  I  might  expect  from  your  truth  and  charity,  combined  with 


72  RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

your  known  opinions.  I  am  not  a  stock  or  a  stone,  as  one  said  in 
the  old  time,  and  could  not  feel  but  pain  in  saying  some  things  in 
that  place  and  presence  which  I  supposed  would  meet  with  dissent, 
and  the  dissent  I  may  say  of  dear  friends  and  benefactors  of  mine. 
Yet,  as  my  conviction  is  perfect  in  the  substantial  truth  of  the  doc 
trines  of  this  discourse,  and  is  not  very  new,  you  will  see  at  once 
that  it  must  appear  very  important  that  it  be  spoken ;  and  I  thought 
I  could  not  pay  the  nobleness  of  my  friends  so  mean  a  compliment 
as  to  suppress  my  opposition  to  their  supposed  views  out  of  fear  of 
offence.  I  would  rather  say  to  them — These  things  look  thus  to 
me,  to  you  otherwise.  Let  us  say  our  uttermost  word,  and  be  the 
all-pervading  truth,  as  it  surely  will,  judge  between  us.  Either  of 
us  would,  I  doubt  not,  be  equally  apprised  of  his  error.  Mean 
time  I  shall  be  admonished  by  this  expression  of  your  thought  to 
revise  with  great  care  the  '  Address '  before  it  is  printed  (for  the 
use  of  the  class),  and  I  heartily  thank  you  for  this  expression  of 
your  tried  toleration  and  love." 

This  was  followed  by  a  sermon  against  Emerson's  views,  a 
copy  of  which  was  sent  to  him  with  a  letter,  to  which  he 
replied  as  follows : 

"  I  ought  sooner  to  have  replied  to  your  kind  letter  of  last  week, 
and  the  Sermon  it  accompanied.  The  letter  was  right,  manly  and 
noble.  The  sermon,  too,  I  have  read  with  attention.  If  it  assails 
any  doctrine  of  mine— perhaps  I  am  not  so  quick  to  see  it  as 
writers  generally— certainly  I  did  not  feel  any  disposition  to 
depart  from  my  habitual  contentment  that  you  should  say  your 
thought,  whilst  I  say  mine.  I  believe  I  must  tell  you  what  I  think 
of  my  new  position.  It  strikes  me  very  oddly  that  good  and  wise 
men,  and  Cambridge  and  Boston,  should  think  of  raising  me  into 
an  object  of  criticism.  I  have  always  been,  from  my  very  incapa. 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON*  73 

eity  of  methodical  writing,  « a  chartered  libertine,'  free  to  worship 
and  free  to  rail,  lucky  when  I  could  make  myself  understood,  but 
never  esteemed  near  enough  to  the  institutions  and  mind  of  society 
to  deserve  the  notice  of  the  masters  of  literature  and  religion.  I 
have  appreciated  fully  the  advantages  of  my  position,  for  I  well 
know  that  there  is  no  scholar  less  willing  or  less  able  to  be  a 
polemic.  I  could  not  give  account  of  myself,  if  challenged.  I 
could  not  possibly  give  you  one  of  the  arguments  you  cruelly  hint 
at,  on  which  any  doctrine  of  mine  stands.  For  I  do  not  know  what 
arguments  mean  in  reference  to  any  expression  of  a  thought.  I 
delight  in  telling  what  I  think  ;  but  if  you  ask  me  why  I  dare  say 
so,  or  why  it  is  so,  I  am  the  most  helpless  of  mortal  men.  I  do 
not  even  see  that  either  of  these  questions  admits  of  an  answer,  so 
that  in  the  present  posture  of  affairs,  when  I  see  myself  suddenly 
raised  to  the  importance  of  a  heretic,  I  am  very  uneasy  when  I 
advert  to  the  supposed  duties  of  such  a  personage,  who  is  to  make 
good  his  thesis  against  all  comers.  I  certainly  shall  do  no  such 
thing.  I  shall  read  what  you  and  other  good  men  write,  as  I  have 
always  done,  glad  when  you  speak  my  thoughts,  and  skipping  the 
page  that  has  nothing  for  me.  I  shall  go  on  just  as  before,  seeing 
whatever  I  can,  and  telling  what  I  see ;  and,  I  suppose,  with  the 
same  fortune  that  has  hitherto  attended  me ;  the  joy  of  finding 
that  my  abler  and  better  brothers,  who  work  with  the  sympathy  of 
society,  loving  and  beloved,  do  now  and  then  unexpectedly  confirm 
my  perception,  and  find  my  nonsense  is  only  their  own  thought  in 
motley.  And  so  I  am  your  affectionate  servant,  R.  W.  E," 

"We  have  now  spoken  of  about  one  half  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
labors.  He  has  published  a  second  series  of  Essays,  and  a 
volume  of  Poems.  The  Second  Series  of  Essays  are  nine  in 
number,  and  consist  of  the  Poet,  Experience,  Character,  Man- 


74  RALPH     WALDO 


ners,  Gifts,  Nature,  Politics,  Nominalist  and  Realist,  and  New 
England  Reformers,     It  would  occupy  too  much  space  to  speak 
of  these  in  detail,  or  to  quote  largely  from  them,  laden  as  they 
are  with  original  thought,  apt  expression,  and  felicitous  illustra 
tion.     We  believe  no  one  has  ever  gone  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter  like  Mr.  Emerson  has  in  his  Essay  on  the  Poet.     It 
is   a    fine    statement    of    the  intellectuality    of    Poetry  —  not 
Hazlitt,   nor  Wilson,  nor   Macaulay,  nor  Talfourd,  nor  Lamb, 
—  and  we  believe  these  are  the  most  eminent  among  modern 
critics  who  have  ever  got  anear  the  subject  ;  they  have  dis 
coursed  about  it,  and  essayed  on  it,  and  lectured  of  it,  but  not 
one  of  these  ever  got  to  the  head    of  the  matter  like  our 
author.     Arriving  there,  he  tells  us  of  it,  and  we  are  for  ever 
satisfied,  for  at  last  he  has  expounded  the  secret,  and  with  him 
we  knoiv,  but  feel  not.     It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  refrain  from 
quoting,   but  necessity    compels  us.     And    though    we    may 
not  quote  further,  we  have  still  something  to  say  about  them  ; 
we  have  to  record  our  regret  that  these  earnest,  sincere,  and 
truthful  words  should  be  so  little  known-so  little  known  in  his 
own  country  even-we  have  to  record  our  regret  that  no  able 
Dther  of  universal  truth  has  stepped  forth  to  rescue  his  name 
om  the  aspersions  cast  upon  his  character  as  a  teacher.     Carlyle 
true,  introduced  him  to  the  English  public;  but  it  is  one 
?  to  introduce  a  man  to  a  new  world,  and  another  thing  to 
*lp  and  aid  him  therein.     It  may  be  that  Carlyle  thought  an  in- 
ct,on  was  sufficient  ;  it  may  even  be  that  Emerson  thought 
o  also,  and  trusted  to  the  intrinsic  worth  of  his  thought  to  work 
vay  m  the  minds  of  men  ;  but  still  we  cannot  help  expressing 
our  regret  that  the  greatest  man  in  the  19th  century  should  be 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON.  75 

so  little  known,  so  barefacedly  robbed,  and  so  carped  at  by  the 
Pharisees  of  the  day,  without  any  one  stepping  forth  to  take 
up  his  cause,  and  show  that  he  is  not  the  person  they  represent 
him. 

We  were  going  to  say,  to  any  unprejudiced  mind  Emerson's 
writings  must  commend  themselves  ;  we  were  going  to  say  this, 
when  the  difficulty  struck  us  of  finding  any  unprejudiced  mind. 
We  are  all  prejudiced,  either  by  birth,  or  habit,  or  education, 
and  therefore  we  can  only  hope  for  two  classes  who  will  appre 
ciate  Emerson — the  highly  cultured  and  the  ignorant;  these 
last,  however,  must  be  those  that  think  for  themselves.  It  is 
the  middle  class,  the  men  who  have  a  smattering  of  all  things 
and  know  nothing  entirely,  to  whom  Emerson  appears  as  an 
Atheist,  a  Pantheist,  and  an  Infidel.  To  the  first  he  approves 
himself  a  man — a  great  and  worthy  teacher  ;  and  to  the  last  he 
is  new  life,  new  light — a  spiritual  sun  which  shines  as  freely,  as 
warmly  on  their  hearts  as  the  sun  of  nature  does  upon  their 
bodies.  We  have  felt  the  truth  of  what  we  say,  and  there 
fore  do  not  feel  any  diffidence  in  telling  our  experience.  We 
belong  to  the  lowest  class ;  we  have  believed  with  our  fathers 
and  elders,  we  have  doubted  and  thought,  thought  earnestly 
and  long,  and  found  comfort,  and  joy,  and  pleasure  in  the 
instruction  Emerson  has  afforded  us.  His  views  have  been  to 
us  a  new  existence,  or  rather  have  shown  us  the  true  value  of 
the  existence  God  has  already  given  to  us.  His  views  have 
set  us  on  our  feet  again,  and  gave  us  hope,  and  heart,  and 
courage,  when  all  else  has  proved  vain,  authoritative,  and  arbi 
trary.  Our  study  of  Emerson  has  not  been  exclusive ;  we  have 
had  time  to  taste  of  most  of  the  poetry  and  philosophy  writ- 


76  RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON. 

ten  in  the  English  language  from  Chaucer  downwards  ;  and  we 
again  declare  that  we  know  of  no  author  that  is  so  full  of  sug 
gestion,  speaks  so  directly  to  the  heart,  and  is  so  free  from  the 
prejudices  of  the  time,  and  the  fashions  in  which  we  live. 
Bacon,  the  great  Lord  Bacon,  sinks  to  a  mere  politician  along 
side  Emerson.  But  we  do  not,  nevertheless,  undervalue  Bacon ; 
he  was  a  great  man  in  his  time,  and  exercised  a  wide  influence 
upon  his  age  and  ages  after.  But  he  was  neither  so  deep-see 
ing  nor  so  true-spoken  as  Emerson ;  for  proof  take  any  Essay 
these  two  have  written  on  the  same  subject — '  Love,'  for  instance 
— and  compare  them,  and  see  how  much  one  excels  the  other. 
Bacon's  spirit,  great  as  it  was  (and  it  was  marvellous  for  his 
age),  never  mounted  so  high,  never  extended  so  wide,  never 
descended  so  low  as  Emerson's.  There  is  one  reason,  however, 
that  is  obvious  why  our  author  should  greatly  eclipse  these 
luminaries,  and  that  is,  he  has  had  all  their  light,  all  their 
genius  to  assist  his  own.  We  can  trace  in  his  writings  many 
thoughts  he  has  got  from  Chaucer,  Sidney,  Herbert,  Shakspeare, 
Bacon,  the  Elder  Dramatists,  from  the  Greeks,  from  the  Romans, 
from  the  Hindoos,  from  the  Scandinavians,  from  the  Germans, 
and  lastly  from  his  own  experience,  on  which  last  he  himself 
sets  most  value,  and  justly,  seeing  that  all  his  teachers' 
worth  was  thus  obtained.  Truth  being  universal,  and  not  any 
thing  exclusive,  to  those  who  will  receive  it  is  as  common  as 
the  air  we  breathe,  and,  like  the  best  of  all  things,  should  be 
most  acceptable.  Emerson  and  his  philosophy  are  as  remarka 
ble  things  in  this  age  as  are  the  locomotive,  the  electric  tele 
graph,  and  the  daguerreotype.  They  are,  too,  exercising  as 
deep  an  influence,  slowly  but  surely  winning  men  to  look 


RALPH      WALDO      EMERSON. 

rightly  at  things,  and  with  their  own  eyes.  He  is  a  pioneer  as 
brave,  and  as  indomitable  in  clearing  away  obstructions  to  the 
growth  of  mind,  as  are  those  of  the  West  in  clearing  the  soil. 
Many  a  great  work  and  many  a  noble  deed  will  yet  take  its 
date  from  his  words,  and  if  they  have  the  power  to  produce 
such  fruit,  and  we  affirm  that  they  have  to  a  high  degree,  who 
shall  say  this  man  is  an  opponent  to  Christianity  ?  Who, 
indeed,  but  those  who  make  that  doctrine  a  business,  and  not  a 
rule  of  life  !  We  have  one  other  phase  in  which  we  wish  to 
present  our  author,  and  that  is,  as  a  poet.  The  selections  we 
have  made  from  his  prose  have  already  given  evidence  of  his 
poetic  faculty,  not  as  a  poet  of  passion,  but  of  reason. 

Mr.  Emerson  possesses  so  many  characteristics  of  genius  that 
his  want  of  universality  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  ;  the  lead 
ing  feature  of  his  mind  is  intensity;  he  is  deficient  in  heart 
sympathy.  Full  to  overflowing  with  intellectual  appreciation, 
he  is  incapable  of  that  embracing  reception  of  impulses  which 
gives  to  Byron  so  large  a  measure  of  influence  and  fame. 
Emerson  is  elevated,  but  not  expansive ;  his  flight  is  high,  but 
not  extensive.  He  has  a  magnificent  vein  of  the  purest  gold, 
but  it  is  not  a  mine.  To  vary  our  illustration  somewhat,  he  is 
not  a  world,  but  a  district ;  a  lofty  and  commanding  eminence 
we  admit,  but  only  a  very  small  portion  of  the  true  Poet's  uni 
verse.  What,  however,  he  has  done  is  permanent,  and  America 
will  always  in  after  times  be  proud  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 
and  consider  him  one  of  her  noblest  sons. 


78  NATHANIEL     PARKER      WILLIS. 


NATHANIEL    FAROE    WILLIS. 


THERE  is  a  want  of  naturalness  in  Mr.  Willis's  writings  which 
will  inevitably  affect  their  continuance,  and  we  have  doubts 
whether  any  of  his  numerous  prose  works  will  remain  perma 
nent  portions  of  Literature. 

There  are  two  descriptions  of  popularity  which  are  essen 
tially  different ;  the  first  is  founded  on  the  human  heart,  the 
other  is  merely  supported  by  the  conventionalities  of  the  present 
time.  Popularity  is,  therefore,  not  a  sure  test ;  we  should  then 
first  inquire  what  kind  of  popularity  an  author  possesses 
before  we  decide  upon  his  relative  chance  of  immortality. 

How  many  great  celebrities  have  passed  away  ?  Who  was 
so  popular  as  Churchill  in  his  own  day  ?  Yet  he  is  now  seldom 
read  or  quoted.  His  popularity  was  built  on  a  figment  of 
Human  Nature,  and  not  based  on  the  breath  of  the  Heart  of 
Man.  He  was  a  satirist,  and  not  a  poet ;  the  personal  dies  with 
the  man  and  his  victim,  but  the  universal  will  live  for  ever.  In 
like  manner,  to  descend  to  the  present  day,  we  can  come  pretty 
near  a  prophetic  glance  into  the  future,  by  carefully  selecting 
the  characteristics  of  any  author,  and  judging  him  by  that 
unerring  standard.  We  may  give  as  an  instance  Mr.  Thackeray, 
whose  productions  are  now  so  generally  read  and  lauded  ;  the 


NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS.  79 

slightest  glance  at  him  will  convince  the  critic  that  when  the 
peculiar  phase  of  society  he  treats  on  shall  pass  away,  he  will 
likewise  go  with  it.  It  is  also  worthy  of  observation  that  the 
very  fact  which  might  in  some  cases  preserve  it  becomes  its 
destroyer.  It  might  naturally  be  supposed  that  it  would  be 
prized  as  a  record  of  the  past ;  but  it  seems  as  though  the 
interest  died  away  with  the  thing  described. 

On  this  ground  we  fear  that  Mr.  Willis  will  not  be  an  endur 
ing  writer.  The  persiflage  and  piquancy  of  his  style,  which 
are  now  so  enticing,  will  in  a  few  years  become  the  obscurers 
of  his  fame,  just  as  the  pertness  and  vivacity  of  the  blooming 
girl  become  intolerable  in  the  matron.  Posterity  demands 
something  substantial,  condensed,  and  truthful.  It  is  a  very 
close-judging  critic,  and  all  personal  considerations  are  lost 
upon  it.  Appeals  to  feeling  are  unknown ;  it  is  the  Rhada- 
manthus  of  authors.  The  present  race,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
too  apt  to  overlook  the  solid  merits  of  a  work,  and  be  taken  by 
the  tinsel  of  the  outside  garb ;  they  choose  beauty,  grace,  or 
accomplishment,  before  virtue  or  truth.  Many  honorable,  noble 
natures  sit  in  the  judgment-seat  and  discourse  most  excellent 
music,  but  their  audiences  grow  weary  and  thin  away,  till  they 
themselves  depart  unheeded  ;  while  the  dancing  girl,  organ- 
grinder,  tumbler,  or  Punch  and  Judy,  have  a  ready  and  nume 
rous  crowd  of  listeners. 

However  much  this  may  be  deplored,  it  cannot  be  helped. 
The  present  race  is  not  instructed  by  its  contemporaries,  but  by 
its  ancestors.  The  writers  of  the  day  only  amuse  ;  the  living 
man  is  listened  to  only  as  long  as  he  is  entertaining  or  exciting ; 
but  the  grave  sanctifies  the  voice  of  the  dead,  and  arrests  the 


80  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

traveller's  attention.  The  Siste  Viator  of  the  sepulchre  is 
the  "  open  sesame  "  to  the  attention  of  the  world. 

We  have  thought  it  necessary  to  make  these  preliminary 
remarks,  lest  our  estimate  of  so  popular  an  author  as  Mr. 
Willis  should  be  considered  harsh  or  unjust.  It  will  be  seen 
we  try  our  American  men  of  genius  by  the  highest  stan 
dard.  It  is  no  child's  plaything  that  they  have  to  bend,  but 
the  Bow  of  Ulysses ;  and  we  feel  sure,  upon  a  little  considera 
tion,  they  will  consider  it  as  a  compliment  rather  than  a  detrac 
tion  or  reproach.  We  want  them  to  be  fellow-laborers  with 
Marlow,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Halley,  and  men  of  that 
calibre,  and  not  the  playfellows  of  the  minnesinger  and  the 
troubadour. 

To  quote  the  verse  of  Watts  : — 

"  Were  I  so  tall  as  reach  the  pole, 

And  grasp  the  ocean  with  a  span, 
I  would  be  measured  by  my  soul, 
That  is  the  standard  of  the  man." 

It  is  not  his  popularity  by  which  we  must  measure  the 
author,  but  the  intellect  he  puts  forth.  This  is  a  perpetual 
landmark  not  washed  away  by  every  strong  tide  of  opinion, 
always  ebbing  and  flowing,  but  unmoved  and  visible  to  all. 

Intellect  is  even  more  unvarying  than  faith.  Plato,  Euclid, 
Aristotle,  and  the  Greek  dramatists,  remain  undiminished,  like 
the  pyramids.  Time  consolidates  the  achievements  of  poetry, 
philosophy,  and  mathematics.  All  minds,  even  now,  bow  to 
the  masters  of  thought;  but  the  religious  faith  of  these  great 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  81 

men  is  now  too  childish  for  even  the  boy,  and  we  read  it 
now,  and  regard  it,  as  a  fable  or  an  absurdity. 

This  fact  will  lead  us  to  a  better  estimate  of  our  living 
authors  than  we  shall  attain  without  keeping  it  fully  in 
view.  We  are  aware  there  is  a  certain  instinct  in  our  nature, 
which  seems  to  forbid  or  modify  any  admiration  of  one 
with  whom  we  are  in  the  habit  of  frequent  intercourse.  Our 
egotism  steps  in  and  places  before  the  brightness  of  their 
inner  mind,  the  blinding  or  intercepting  screen  of  those  per 
sonal  infirmities  or  necessities  which  are  part  and  parcel  of 
human  nature,  and  the  absence  of  which  places  a  man  out  of 
the  pale  of  humanity  itself.  All  see  and  feel  the  palpable 
injustice  of  this  mode  of  judging,  but  inevitably  fall  into  it. 

The  poet  felt  this  when  he  said : 

"  Let  fame,  which  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  registered  upon  their  brazen  tombs." 

The  grave  seems  to  be  the  only  pedestal  on  which  a  man 
shows  to  advantage. 

Mr.  Willis  first  became  popular  with  a  class  on  account  of 
his  sacred  poems.  These  are  still  much  admired.  Our  first 
impression  was  with  his  admirers,  but  our  more  matured  judg 
ment  is  bound  to  state  that  they  lack  the  very  soul  of  sacred 
poetry,  simplicity  and  earnestness.  They  are  too  elegant  to 
be  sublime,  and  breathe  more  of  the  perfumer's  shop  than 
the  fragrant  incense  of  the  altar. 

A  few  quotations  will  illustrate  our  meaning,  and  we  hope 
establish  our  judgment ;  at  all  events,  it  will  enable  the  reader 
to  decide  upon  either  our  discretion  or  our  candor. 


82  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

We  select  a  passage  from  "The  Healing  of  the  Daughter 
of  Jairus."  The  touching  simplicity  of  this  is  known  to  every 
reader  of  the  Bible.  Mr.  Willis  thus  renders  it : 

"  They  passed  in. 

The  spice  lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 

Burned  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 

Curled  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 

The  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds — 

Not  e'en  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed. 
And  prayed  inaudible,  the  RULER  heard 

The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 

As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 

A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face  : 

And  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 

The  silken  curtains  silently  apart, 

And  looked  upon  the  maiden." 

This  short  passage  displays  almost  every  peculiarity  which 
sacred  poetry  should  not  possess.  It  is  pretty,  very  pretty; 
but  as  far  from  truth  and  nature  as  a  French  milliner  is 
from  the  Venus  de  Medicis.  We  have  italicized  a  few  of 
the  most  glaring  violations  of  propriety. 

We  give  one  more  extract  to  complete  the  picture  :  it 
immediately  follows  the  previous  quotation. 

"  Like  a  form 

3f  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay— 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 


NATHANIEL      PARKER     WILLIS.  83 

The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life  ^ 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin, 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins, 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  o'erlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencilled  on  her  brow, — 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'T  was  heavenly  beautiful." 

With  this  crowning  climax  we  close  this  attempt  to  diminish 
into  mere  prettiness  the  sublime  simplicity  of  this  gospel  nar 
rative. 

We  need  hardly  point  out,  to  the  most  casual  reader, 
the  singular  taste  which  has  dictated  the  selection  of  the 
images  and  epithets  of  this  piece  of  sacred  verse. 

As  a  curious  specimen  of  scriptural  vocabulary  we  may 
quote  the  following : — 

"  Spice  lamps ;"  "  alabaster  urns ;"  "  white  and  fragrant  smoke ;" 
"  curled  indolently ;"  "  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds ;" 
"  silken  curtains," 

repeated  in  a  few  lines  further  down  the  page. 

The  description  of  the  dead  maiden,  in  the  next  quotation,^ 


84  NATHANIEL     PARKEB     WILLIS. 

rather  an  anatomical  auctioneer  Eobins  cataloguing  her  limbs, 
than  a  fine  picture  of  death,  sketched  by  the  hand  of  a  poet. 

Our  readers  must  pardon  our  placing  in  juxtaposition  to 
this  elegant  elaboration,  a  passage  from  Byron.  However 
well  known  these  lines  may  be,  their  reiteration  now  will 
do  more  to  show  the  difference  between  false  and  true  poetry 
than  a  volume  of  critical  analysis. 

"  He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress ; 

Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers, 

And  marked  the  mild,  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there, 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  that  pallid  cheek ;— . 

And  but  for  that  sad,  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not  now, 

And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
Where  'cold  obstruction's '  apathy 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  would  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads  yet  dwells  upon,— 
Some  moments,  aye,  a  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power, 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed." 

Although  these  vices  of  style  pervade   to  a 


NATHANIEL      PARKER     WILLIS.  85 

the  poems  of  Mr.  Willis,  there  are  many  occasions  when 
he  writes  with  force  and  plainness.  The  following  opening 
to  his  poem  entitled  "  Rizpah  with  her  Sons,"  is  not  open 
to  our  former  objections.  We  dare  say,  however,  that  many 
will  consider  our  former  quotations  the  best  poetry;  and  we 
fear  that  the  poet  has  himself  been  frequently  led  to  consult 
the  taste  of  his  admirers,  rather  than  his  own. 

" '  Bread  for  my  mother !'  said  the  voice  of  one 
Darkening  the  door  of  Rizpah.     She  looked  up — 
And  lo !  the  princely  countenance  and  mien 
Of  dark-browed  Armeni.     The  eye  of  Saul, 
The  very  voice  and  presence  of  the  king, 
Limb,  port,  and  majesty,  were  present  there, 
Mocked  like  an  apparition  in  her  Son. 
Yet  as  he  stooped  his  forehead  to  her  hand 
With  a  kind  smile,  a  something  of  his  mother 
Unbent  the  haughty  arching  of  his  lip, 
And  through  the  darkness  of  the  widow's  heart 
Trembled  a  nerve  of  tenderness,  that  shook 
Her  thought  of  pride  all  suddenly  to  tears." 

It  is  a  conclusive  proof  of  the  bad  taste  of  over  ornament 
that  it  always  fails  of  effect  when  so  unsparingly  laid  on.  The 
mind  readily  welcomes  the  poetical  and  intensed  lines  : 

"  And  through  the  darkness  of  the  widow's  heart 
Trembled  a  nerve  of  tenderness,  that  shook 
Her  thought  of  pride  all  suddenly  to  tears" 

We  here  feel  that  the  metaphor  is  justified  by  the  passion 
4* 


86  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

of  the  scene  ;  but  the  besetting  sin  is  too  strong,  and  after  a  few 
more  lines  we  come  to  these  : 

"  Was  this  the  fairest  of  the  sons  of  Saul  1 
The  violet's  cup  was  harsh  to  his  blue  eye, 
Less  agile  was  the  fierce  barb's  fiery  step ; 
His  voice  drew  hearts  to  him :  his  smile  was  like 
The  incarnation  of  some  blessed  dream, 
Its  joyousness  so  sunned  the  gazer's  eye  ! 
Fair  were  his  locks :  his  snowy  teeth  divided 
A  bow  of  love,  drawn  with  a  scarlet  thread. 
His  cheek  was  like  the  moist  heart  of  the  rose, 
And  but  for  nostrils  of  that  breathing  fire 
That  turns  the  lion  back,  and  limbs  as  lithe 
As  is  the  velvet  muscle  of  the  pard, 
Mephibosheth  had  been  too  fair  for  man." 

It  really  seems,  on  reading  these  lines,  that  the  author  had 
deliberately  resolved  to  rack  his  fancy  for  the  most  outrageous 
conceits  and  hyperboles  that  he  could  invent. 

It  is  pleasant  to  leave  this  strained  metaphorical  style,  and 
come  to  such  verses  as  these. 

"  THIRTY-FIVE. 


Oh !  weary  heart,  thou'rt  half  way  home ! 

We  stand  on  life's  meridian  height, 
As  far  from  childhood's  morning  come, 

As  to  the  grave's  forgetful  night. 
Give  youth  and  hope  a  parting  tear, 

Look  onward  with  a  placid  brow— 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  87 

Hope  promised  but  to  bring  us  here, 

And  reason  takes  the  guidance  now. 
One  backward  look — the  last — the  last, 

One  silent  year — for  youth  is  past !" 

These  are  natural,  manly  verses,  and  show  how  much  Mr. 
Willis  has  lost  by  not  cultivating  this  simpler  style.  The  whole 
of  this  poem  is  so  good  that  we  shall  quote  it. 

"  Who  goes  with  hope  and  passion  back  ? 

Who  comes  with  me  and  memory  on  1 
Oh  !  lonely  looks  that  downward  track — 

Joy's  music  hushed — Hope's  roses  gone. 
To  pleasure  and  her  giddy  troop 

Farewell,  without  a  sigh  or  tear ! 
But  heart  gives  way,  and  spirits  droop, 

To  think  that  love  may  leave  us  here." 

There  is  a  pathos  in  the  last  line  which  had  Mr.  Willis  more 
frequently  displayed,  would  have  rendered  him  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  modern  American  Poets. 

"  Have  we  no  charm  when  youth  has  flown, 
Midway  to  death  left  sad  and  lone" 

«  Yet  stay,  as  'twere  a  twilight  star 

That  sends  its  thread  across  the  wave, 

I  see  a  brightening  light  from  far, 
That  shows  a  path  beyond  the  grave, 

And  now— bless  God  ! — its  golden  line 
Comes  o'er,  and  lights  my  shadowy  way, 


88  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

And  shows  the  dear  hand  clasped  in  mine  ! 
But  list  what  those  sweet  voices  say : 

The  better  land's  in  sight, 

And,  by  its  chastening  light, 
All  love  for  life's  midway  is  driven, 
Save  her  whose  clasped  hand  will  bring  thee  on  to  Heaven." 

The  close  of  this  is  certainly  too  much  in  the  old  orthodox 
school,  but  they  are  almost  entirely  free  from  the  faults  of  style 
we  have  before  objected  to. 

There  seems  to  us  a  great  affinity  between  the  poetry  of 
Barry  Cornwall  and  Willis ;  not  so  much  the  imitation  of  the 
younger  one,  as  a  natural  resemblance.  If  Mr.  Proctor  excels 
his  younger  competitor  in  verse,  Mr.  Willis  has  the  advantage 
over  him  in  prose,  and  they  will  make  an  admirable  parallel  in 
some  future  poetical  Plutarch. 

Who  would  believe  that  the  author  of  the  tinsel  tawdry 
verses  we  have  presented  to  our  readers  had  written  the  follow 
ing  natural  poem : 

"SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

"  I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  grey. 

"  For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 
And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 


NATHANIEL      PARKER     WILLIS.  89 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

"  I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 
And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 

**  It  is  very  true :  it  is  very  true, 
I  am  old  and  I  bide  my  time, 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 
And  half  renew  my  prime. 

"  Play  on,  play  on,  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring, 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 

"  I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

"  I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go, 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 
And  my  pulse  is  getting  low. 

"  But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way, 
And  it  whiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 
To  see  the  young  so  gay." 


90  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

Some  critics  .have  contended  that  this  poem  is  deficient  in 
sympathetic  consistency,  inasmuch  as  the  latter  part  differs 
from  the  commencement,  and  consequently  jars  that  fine  artistic 
sense  which  is  inseparable  from  the  pure  poetic  mind. 

This  is,  however,  a  hypercriticism  we  shall  not  venture 
into,  and  we  merely  name  it  as  a  critical  problem  for  the 
reader's  entertainment.  We  well  remember  the  first  time 
we  read  these  verses  many  years  ago,  and  they  became  a 
part  of  the  heart's  household  from  that  very  hour. 

Had  Mr.  Willis  often  written  in  this  style  criticism  would 
have  been  needless,  for  they  would  have  at  once  settled 
the  question  by  seizing  upon  the  hearts  of  all  readers. 

We  think  it  the  unalienable  right  of  every  writer  to  be 
judged  by  his  whole  case :  yet  how  frequently  is  an  author 
condemned  for  failure  in  one  branch  of  literature,  while  his 
triumph  in  other  and  loftier  departments  is  forgotten  or 
neglected!  We  think  in  this  we  perceive  a  great  difference 
between  American  and  English  criticism.  In  the  latter  coun 
try  an  author's  reputation  generally  remains  where  it  was 
before  the  publication  of  the  unsuccessful  work;  if  he  gains 
nothing,  he  loses  nothing,  except  possibly  a  portion  of  that 
prestige  which  always  accompanies  success — he  has  a  corps 
de  reserve  to  retire  upon.  But  in  America  a  writer  may  lose 
all  on  account  of  one  failure,  and  be  well  abused  into  the  bar 
gain.  There  is  a  monomaniacal  spirit  of  detraction  in  their 
critical  press  which  is  truly  astounding,  and  would  be  ludicrous 
were  it  not  for  the  injurious  tendency  it  has  upon  the  literature 
of  the  country.  Agreeably  to  this  view,  we  not  only  wish  to 
consider  Mr.  Willis  as  a  poet,  but  also  to  test  his  powers  in  the 


NATHANIEL     PARKER      WILLIS.  91 

various  branches  of  that  divine  art.  We  have  already  weighed 
him  in  the  scale  of  sacred  descriptive  poetry,  and  found  him 
wanting,  and  have  likewise  expressed  our  admiration  of  his 
occasional  verses ;  we  now  present  him  in  another  light,  as  a 
writer  of  devotional  impulse,  and  as  a  proof  quote  the  "  Dedi 
cation  Hymn,"  sung  at  the  consecration  of  Hanover  Street 
Church,  Boston. 

«  The  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod, 
Was  the  first  temple,  built  by  God : 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner-stone, 
And  reared  his  pillars  one  by  one. 
He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high — 
The  broad  illimitable  sky ; 
He  spread  its  pavements,  green  and  bright, 
And  curtained  it  with  morning  light. 

"  The  mountains  in  their  places  stood — 
The  sea — the  sky — and  all  was  good : 
And  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  morning  stars  together  sang — 
Lord,  't  is  not  ours  to  make  the  sea, 
And  earth,  and  sky,  a  house  for  thee : 
But  in  thy  sight  our  offering  stands, 
A  humbler  temple  made  with  hands." 

This  is  certainly  better  than  the  descriptive  poetry  on  sacred 
subjects,  but  the  same  defect  spoils  this,  although  in  a  lesser 
degree ;  the  hymn  is  very  pretty,  and  herein  the  failure  con 
sists. 


92  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

The  next  specimen  we  shall  give  is  certainly  a  startling  con 
trast  to  the  foregoing  piece,  but  this  is,  perhaps,  the  truest  way 
of  ascertaining  the  real  vein  of  an  author.  The  critics,  cold 
blooded  and  calculating  too  often,  oppose  this  plan  on  the 
argument  that  the  violent  reaction  prevents  the  palate  from 
regaining  its  natural  taste.  In  despite  of  this  we  shall  give  the 
following  city  lyric : 

"  Come  out,  love,  the  night  is  enchanting, 
The  moon  hangs  just  over  Broadway, 
The  stars  are  all  lighted  and  panting 
(Hot  weather  up  there,  I  dare  say). 
T  is  seldom  that  coolness  entices, 

And  love  is  no  better  for  chilling, 
But  come  up  to  Thompson's  for  ices, 
And  cool  your  warm  heart  for  a  shilling. 

***** 
Oh!  on  by  St.  Paul's  and  the  Astor, 

Religion  seems  very  ill  planned: 
For  one  day  we  list  to  the  pastor, 

For  six  days  we  list  to  the  band. 
The  sermon  may  dwell  on  the  future, 

The  organ  your  pulses  may  calm, 
When-past-that  remembered  cachuca, 
Upsets  both  the  sermon  and  psalm. 
'•'Pity  the  love  that  must  utter 
While  goes  a  swift  omnibus  by, 
Though  sweet  is  I  scream,  when  the  flutter 
f  fans  shows  thermometer's  high 
if  what  I  bawl,  or  I  mutter, 
Falls  into  your  eye  but  to  die, 

the  dew  that  falls  into  the  gutter, 
more  unhappy  than  I" 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  93 

We  think  our  readers  will  agree  that  Mr.  Willis  is  not  very- 
successful  as  a  comic  writer  in  verse.  We  will,  however,  give 
him  one  more  trial  before  we  decide  that  point. 

"  TO    THE    LADY    IN   THE    CHEMISETTE    WITH   BLACK   BUTTONS. 

"  I  know  not  who  thou  art,  thou  lovely  one. 
Thine  eyes  were  drooped,  thy  lips  half  sorrowful, 
Yet  thou  didst  eloquently  smile  on  me, 
While  handing  up  thy  sixpence  through  the  hole 
Of  that  o'er-freighted  omnibus  ! — Ah,  me  ! — 
The  world  is  full  of  meetings  such  as  this ; 
A  thrill — a  voiceless  challenge  and  reply, 
And  sudden  partings  after — we  may  pass, 
And  know  not  of  each  other's  nearness  now. 
Thou  in  the  Knickerbocker  Line,  and  I 
Lone  in  the  Waverley  !     Oh  !  life  of  pain, 
And  even  should  I  pass  where  thou  dost  dwell, 
Nay,  see  thee  in  the  basement  taking  tea, 
So  cold  is  this  inexorable  world, 
I  must  glide  on.     I  dare  not  feast  mine  eye, 
I  dare  not  make  articulate  my  love, 
Nor  o'er  the  iron  rails  that  hem  thee  in, 
Venture  to  throw  to  thee  my  innocent  card, 
Not  knowing  thy  papa." 

Mr.  Willis  seems  to  be  fond  of  the  mock-heroic  style  of 
verse,  for  we  have  another  copy  of  verses  to  "  The  Lady  in  the 
White  Dress  whom  I  helped  into  the  Omnibus."  We  shall,  how 
ever,  not  quote  any  portion  of  this,  as  it  is  in  a  similar  strain  to 
the  other ;  our  readers  will  decide  as  to  what  amount  of  humor 
there  is  displayed  in  these  pieces.  In  another  phase  of  banter, 


94  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

we  think  Mr.  Willis  shows  considerable  cleverness ;  there  is  an 
elegance  about  his  frivolity  which  lends  a  grace  to  the  effort  not 
otherwise  belonging  to  it. 

"LOVE  m  A  COTTAGE. 

"  You  may  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage, 

And  bowers  of  trellised  vine, 
Of  nature  bewitchingly  simple, 

And  milkmaids  half  divine. 
******* 
But  give  me  a  sly  flirtation, 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier, 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses, 

And  nobody  very  near. 
Or  a  seat  on  a  silken  sofa, 

With  a  glass  of  pure  old  wine, 
And  mamma  too  blind  to  discover 

The  small  white  hand  in  mine. 
Your  love  in  a  cottage  is  hungry, 

Your  vine  is  a  nest  for  flies, 
Your  milkmaid  shocks  the  graces, 

And  simplicity  talks  of  pies. 
******* 
True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet, 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease, 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 
£And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady, 
His  foot's  an  invisible  thing, 
And  his  arrow  is  tipped  with  a  jewel, 
And  shot  from  a  silver  string." 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  95 

These  verses  are  highly  characteristic  of  the  writer's  genius. 
Nature  is  pronounced  somewhat  vulgar  and  inconvenient,  and 
the  elegances  of  life  are  considered  as  the  pure  Ideal.  But  we 
mightily  object  to  Mr.  "Willis's  definition  of  elegance  ;  the  true 
elegance  is  the  ideal  of  human  nature  ;  the  elegance  of  the  fop 
is  as  far  removed  from  this  as  are  the  poles  asunder.  The 
Arcadia  of  our  poet  very  much  depends  upon  the  upholsterer, 
the  milliner,  and  the  jeweller.  His  nature  is  artificial,  and, 
instead  of  grassy  meads,  with  heaven's  dew  glistening  on  them, 
they  are  covered  with  Turkey  carpets ;  the  shady  banks  are 
removed,  and  velvet  couches  placed  in  their  stead ;  the  mur 
muring  brooks  are  muffled,  and  the  birds  driven  away  to  make 
room  for  an  Italian  Opera.  This  may  be  civilization  in  a  very 
high  degree,  but  it  is  not  the  natural  elegance  of  man  ;  one  of 
the  old  dramatists  has  admirably  touched  upon  the  Ideal  and 
the  Conventional  in  those  celebrated  lines  alluding  to  our 
Saviour,  as, 

"  The  first  true  gentleman  that  e'er  wore 
Earth  about  him." 

We  may  mention  as  a  singular  proof  of  the  artificiality  of 
Mr.  Willis's  style,  the  curious  fact  that  his  bantering  or  mock- 
heroic  verses  are  scarcely  distinguishable  from  his  scriptural 
poems.  We  give  part  of  "The  Declaration"  as  evidence 
of  our  statement. 

"  'T  was  late,  and  the  gay  company  was  gone, 
And  light  lay  soft  on  the  deserted  room 
From  alabaster  vases,  and  a  scent 
Of  orange  leaves  and  sweet  verbena  came 


96  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

Through  the  unshuttered  window  on  the  air, 
And  the  rich  pictures,  with  their  dark  old  tints, 
Hung  like  a  twilight  landscape,  and  all  things 
Seemed  hushed  into  a  slumber.     Isabel, 
The  dark-eyed,  spiritual  Isabel, 
Was  leaning  on  her  harp,  and  I  had  stayed 
To  whisper  what  I  could  not,  when  the  crowd 
Hung  on  her  look  like  worshippers — 
*  *  *  * 

She  upraised 

Her  forehead  from  its  resting  place,  and  looked 
Earnestly  on  me.     She  had  been  asleep" 

This  is  very  heavy  trifling. 

But  the  chief  test  of  how  far  Mr.  Willis  is  a  humorous  writer 
is  to  be  decided  by  his  "  Lady  Jane,  a  Humorous  Novel  in 
Rhyme."  Here  there  can  be  no  mistake  in  the  matter.  He 
himself  avows  boldly  his  deliberate  and  determined  intention  to 
be  funny.  It  is  not  left  in  doubt,  as  was  the  intention  of 
the  farce  which  was  performed  some  time  since  at  Burton's 
Theatre.  After  a  few  nights  it  was  withdrawn  by  the  author, 
who  declared  that  the  actors  and  audience  had  certainly  mis 
taken  the  nature  of  the  piece  :  he  had  intended  it  for  a  farce, 
but  they  had  actually  considered  it  as  a  serious  drama.  Had 
the  author  followed  Mr.  Willis's  advice  he  would  have  pre 
vented  the  dilemma. 

To  return  to  the  humorous  novel  in  verse.  The  following 
description  of  the  heroine  is  very  felicitous  : 

u  Yet  there  was  fire  within  her  soft  grey  eye, 

And  room  for  pressure  on  her  lips  of  rose ; 
And  few  who  saw  her  gracefully  move  by, 


NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS.  97 

Imagined  that  her  feelings  slept,  or  froze. 
You  may  have  seen  a  cunning  florist  tie 

A  thread  about  a  bud,  which  never  blows, 
But  with  shut  chalice  from  the  sun  and  rain, 

Hoards  up  the  morn — and  such  was  Lady  Jane. 

*  *  *  * 

Some  stanzas  back  we  left  the  ladies  going 
At  six  to  dress  for  dinner.     Time  to  dine 

I  always  give  in  poetry,  well  knowing 
That  to  jump  over  it  in  half  a  line, 

Looks  (let  us  be  sincere,  dear  Muse)  like  showing 
Contempt  we  do  not  feel  for  meat  and  wine. 

Dinner !  ye  gods ! — What  is  there  more  respectable  ? 

For  eating,  who,  save  Byron,  ever  checked  a  belle  ?" 

We  have  read  this  poem  through,  consisting  of  two  or 
three  hundred  verses  in  the  Boccaccian  or  Don  Juan  stanza, 
but  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional  play  upon  words,  we  do 
not  recognise  any  of  those  strokes  of  humor  and  unexpected 
contrasts  which  render  Byron  so  charming.  Still  there  are  a 
pleasant  banter  and  gentlemanly  quizzing  about  many  of  the 
best  stanzas,  which  enable  a  reader  to  get  through  it.  There 
are,  however,  few  passages  which  will  repay  a  second  perusal. 

We  do  not  charge  this  upon  Mr.  Willis  as  a  fault,  because 
his  forte  is  evidently  prose,  where  his  vivacity  and  polished 
style  serve  him  admirably.  His  want  of  earnestness  is  fatal 
to  him  as  a  poet,  but  helps  him  in  those  lighter  sketches 
where  he  seems  quite  at  home. 

We  have  no  space  to  consider  Mr.  Willis  as  a  dramatist ; 
we  must  therefore  content  ourselves  by  remarking  that,  as 
his  plays  have  not  retained  possession  of  the  stage,  he  adds 


98  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

one  more  to  that  long  list  of  writers  who  have  been  seduced 
by  the  temptation  of  popular  applause  to  over-estimate  their 
powers.  We  may  be  permitted  to  add,  that  the  total  absence 
of  dramatic  power  in  his  writings  is  so  marked,  that  we 
should  have  been  more  astonished  at  success  than  failure  :  we 
consequently  merely  chronicle  his  attempt  rather  as  a  bio 
graphical  fact  than  as  a  poetical  feat. 

There  are  few  things  more  anomalous  in  the  history  of 
literature  than  the  present  position  of  the  American  stage. 
Out  of  eight  theatres  hi  the  metropolis  of  the  western  world 
seven  are  owned  by  foreigners,  the  only  exception  being  the 
small  and  somewhat  inferior  one  called  the  National,  in  Chat 
ham  street,  under  the  control  of  Mr.  Chanfrau.  We  are 
informed  that  it  is  almost  impossible  for  an  American  to  get 
a  play  produced,  however  adapted  it  may  be  for  popular  repre 
sentation.  We  are  perfectly  aware  that  many  will  allege 
the  want  of  dramatic  genius  as  a  sufficient  and  conclusive 
reason  for  this  singular  state  of  things ;  but  we  may  be  allowed 
to  observe  that  so  long  as  this  excluding  or  prohibiting  system 
exists,  there  never  will  be  any  genius  shown  in  this  branch  of 
poetry  :  encouragement  is  essentially  necessary  for  every  pro 
duct,  and  for  none  more  than  for  intellectual  variety. 

There  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  indicative  of  a  healthy 
national  state  than  a  legitimate  drama,  and  the  greatest  critics 
in  England  have  thought  that  to  this  species  of  excellence 
Ki.-land  owes  more  than  to  her  victorious  fleets.  It  certainly 
reflects  more  of  a  country's  glory  than  any  other  shape  of 
mind,  and  a  glance  at  the  past  will  confirm  this  view. 

The  victories  of  Greece  have  died  away.     Marathon  is  only 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  99 

a  barren  and  desolate  plain,  but  the  papyrus  on  which  ^Eschylus 
inscribed  his  Prometheus  is  peopled  still  with  his  undying 
characters.  How  transient  are  the  mightiest  triumphs  of  force — 
how  everlasting  the  poet's  thought ;  every  year  deadens  the 
shout  of  the  warrior,  but  the  voice  of  the  poet  rolls  down  the 
corridors  of  the  Future,  awakening  on  its  passage,  like  so  many 
echoes,  the  sympathies  of  the  unborn  millions — nations  yet  to 
be  ;  England  will  always  be  immortal  in  the  world's  esteem  as 
the  land  of  Shakspeare,  when  her  colonies  and  her  commerce 
have  perished. 

As  we  shall  have  a  fitter  place  to  discuss  the  want  of  an 
American  Drama,  we  shall  reserve  what  we  have  to  say  on  this 
subject  for  that  opportunity. 

It  frequently  occurs  that  men  run  against  difficulties  which 
they  have  no  occasion  to  meet;  this  is  the  case  with  Mr. 
Willis.  In  the  intoxication  of  his  vanity  he  believed  he  could 
drive  his  Pegasus  to  its  dramatic  Parnassus,  but  he  found 
obstacles  in  the  way  he  littled  dreamed  of. 

This  reminds  us  of  an  accident  a  lively  novelist  related  one 
evening,  as  having  happened  to  himself.  Having  occasion  to 
dine  with  a  friend,  he  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  told  the  man  to 
drive  as  fast  as  he  could  to  Russell  square.  He  had  not  been 
long  in  the  conveyance  before  he  felt  assured  the  man  was 
drunk ;  now  he  drove  against  a  cart — then  he  went  into  an 
oyster  stall.  He  extricated  himself  from  this  dilemma  by  rushing 
upon  a  heavy  wagon ;  unable  to  overcome  this  obstacle,  he  violated 
the  proprieties  of  driving  by  disorganizing  a  funeral  procession ; 
his  efforts  reached  a  climax  by  mistaking  the  footpath  for  the 
road,  and,  immediately  after,  a  sharp  shock,  and  then  a  dead 


100  NATHANIEL     PARKER      WILLIS. 

stand-still,  convinced  the  rider  inside  that  the  cab  was  inextrica 
bly  fixed.  Springing  out,  our  friend  observed  that  the  man 
was  in  the  middle  of  the  footpath,  and  that  the  wheel  was 
locked  in  a  lamp-post.  Indignantly  demanding  what  the  fellow 
meant,  he  received  the  following  reply :—"  Who  the  devil 
would  have  thought  of  finding  a  post  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  ?"  We  fear  this  will  be  our  author's  apology  for  writing 
plays — he  had  no  idea  he  should  find  any  obstacles  in  his 
way! 

We  must  now  consider  the  prose  writings  of  Mr.  Willis,  and 
we  are  glad  to  say  that  although  he  displays  the  self-same 
peculiarities  we  have  condemned  in  his  poetic  musings,  yet  the 
less  condensed  style  of  composition  renders  them  less  apparent, 
from  the  greater  diffusion  of  the  fault.  Once  for  all,  we  must 
here  make  the  remark  that  he  has  very  little  self-reliance,  and, 
indeed,  not  a  particle  of  dignity  ;  there  is  a  total  want  of  inde 
pendence  about  him,  which  at  times  becomes  absurdly  deferen 
tial.  He  seems  to  have  made  Polonius  his  study,  but,  unlike 
that  wise  old  man,  he  has  not  the  same  excuse.  The  Danish 
Minister  believed  he  had  a  madman  to  humor,  arid  not  a 
rational  being  to  converse  with  ;  and  we  have  always  considered 
this  as  one  of  Shakspeare's  most  wonderful  touches  of  Nature. 
"Very  like  a  whale"  was  a  perfectly  accountable  expression 
from  Polonius  to  a  prince  whom  he  believed  to  be  crazy,  but 
when  Mr.  Willis  expects  that  we  shall  coincide  with  his  dittoes 
to  London  dilettanti,  he  is  wofully  mistaken.  He  seems 
lighted  with  everything  he  saw  and  heard  in  the  British 
capital ;  he  never  bares  the  hideous  mass  of  suffering  under 
that  velvet  pall  of  aristocracy.  Our  space  warns  us  that  we 


NATHANIEL      PARKER     WILLIS.  101 

must  finish  what  we  have  to  say  without  further  loss  of 
time.  We  have  not  judged  him  without  the  very  best  avail 
able  evidence  in  his  favor,  by  his  own  works ;  we  say  this 
on  the  presumption  that  he  would  subpoena  these  witnesses  to 
speak  his  character  in  case  of  a  literary  trial. 

Having  just  completed  the  perusal  of  Mr.  Willis's  collected 
works,  our  impression  is  this : — He  is  a  lively,  entertaining 
writer,  full  of  conceits,  quips,  and  cranks,  but  destitute  of 
that  breadth  and  vigor  of  mind  which  give  vitality  to  a  writer ; 
he  is  content,  swallow-like,  to  skim  on  the  surface,  and  never 
feels  power  or  inclination  to  turn  up  the  hidden  beauties  of 
nature  or  thought.  He  is  content  with  chatting  in  the  Muses' 
boudoir,  at  a  morning  call,  and  leaves  without  producing  any 
impression.  He  is,  therefore,  only  an  occasional  visitor,  and  not 
their  intimate  and  friend.  He  is  sometimes  employed  to  carry 
a  message,  but  is  never  treated  as  their  interpreter  or  ambassa 
dor.  We  close  our  notice  of  Mr.  Willis  with  a  very  charac 
teristic  anecdote  of  Bulwer,  as  related  to  us  by  an  eye 
witness  : — 

Having  been  invited,  at  some  three  weeks'  notice,  by  the 
author  of  Pelham  to  a  grand  dejeuner,  or  Fete  Champe'tre,  at 
his  Villa  near  Fulham,  Mr.  upon  the  afternoon  in  ques 
tion  found  himself  driving  towards  the  scene  of  action.  On  his 
arrival  there,  about  two  in  the  afternoon,  he  joined  a  large  and 
fashionable  company  there  assembled.  Various  groups  were 
scattered  about,  occupied  in  different  ways ;  a  party  here  were 
engaged  in  archeiy — a  party  there  were  listening  to  some 
manuscript  verses  by  some  unpublished  genius,  who  had  basely 

I 


102  NATHANIEL      PAKKER      WILLIS. 

taken  advantage  of  that  courteous  forbearance  so  nearly  allied  to 
martyrdom  to  inflict  his  undeveloped  poems.     At  a  little  dis 
tance,  pacing  up  and  down,  were  a  brace  of  political  economists, 
busily  engaged  in  paying  off  the  national  debt,  and  very  pro 
perly  inattentive  to  their  own  tailors'  claims.     On  the  bank  of 
the  river  was  the  celebrated  novelist  himself,  chatting  to  a  small 
party  of  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  occupied  in  fishing  with  so 
elegant  a  rod  that  Sappho  herself  need  not  have  despised  to  use 
it.     Of  a  sudden  there  was  a  faint  and  highly  lady-like  scream. 
"  A  bite,  a  bite,  Sir  Edward,"  was  the  fascinating  ejaculation  of 
the   fair  angler.     With  that  presence  of  mind  so  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  beautiful  part  of  creation,  she  pulled  the 
rod  from  the  water,  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  a  monstrous 
fish,  almost  as  large  as  a  perch.     While  the  poor  little  thing 
kicked  violently  about,  the  ladies  cried  with  one  accord  for  Sir 
Edward  to  secure  the  struggling  prisoner  by  unhooking  it.     The 
baronet  looked  imploringly  first  at  the  ladies,  then  at  the  fish, 
and  still  more  pathetically  at  his  flesh-colored  kid  gloves,  inno 
cent  of  a  stain.     Sir  Edward's  alarm  was  apparent ;  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  brushing  the  down  from  off  a  butterfly's 
wing,  lest  he  should  soil  the  virgin  purity  of  his  kids,  but  a  fish 
-it  was  too  horrible.     The   ladies,   who   seemed   to  take  a 
fiendish  delight  in  torturing  their  fastidious  host,  insisted  upon 
his   releasing   the   poor   captive,   and  appealed  loudly  to  his 
romantic  sympathies.     At   length   one   of   them   more  lively 
and  mischievous  than  the  rest,  seized  the  rod  and  actually 
waved  it  close  to  Sir  Edward's  face;  throwing  his  hand  out  to 
protect  hims^.his  fingers   came  in  contact   with   the  scaly 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  103 

phenomenon  ; — then  nerving  himself  for  the  deed,  he  resolutely 
seized  the  dangerous  animal,  and,  extricating  it  from  the  hook, 
threw  it  into  its  native  element.  Lamb  has  in  one  of  his  essays 
observed,  how  would  men  like  if  some  superior  being  were  to 
go  out  manning,  and,  letting  down  a  hook  through  the  air 
towards  the  earth,  baited  with  a  beefsteak,  draw  a  man  up  to 
heaven,  roaring  like  a  bull,  with  a  hook  in  his  gills. 

Our  friend  was  cordially  welcomed  by  the  fish  releaser,  and 
finding  several  of  his  old  friends,  rambled  about  the  grounds, 
chatting  first  with  one,  and  then  another,  until  he  felt  all  the 
vulgar  sensations  of  hunger.  It  was  now  five  o'clock,  and  no 
symptoms  of  the  dejeuner ;  he  had  unfortunately  breakfasted 
early,  and  had  purposely  abstained  from  lunching,  his  know 
ledge  of  fashionable  French  being  so  limited  as  to  translate 
erroneously  the  word  "  dejeuner,"  to  mean  a  meal  of  that  kind. 
At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  lunch  bell  rang,  and  a 
nonchalant  rush  was  made  towards  the  house.  The  blaze  of 
light  ushered  them  to  the  room  where  all  was  laid  out  in  the 
perfection  of  Gunter's  best  manner ;  but  judge  our  famished 
friend's  dismay,  when  a  rapid  survey,  like  a  Napoleon's  glance, 
discovered  only  the  elegances  of  eating,  the  ornaments  of  the 
appetite,  and  not  its  substantialities.  Jellies  in  the  shape  of 
crystal  mounds  ;  cakes  battlemented  like  the  baronial  dwell 
ings  of  feudal  tyrants.  Trifles  light  as  air,  swelling  over 
Chinese  dwellings,  crimson  flushed  with  vermilion  sweets  ;  piles 
of  bon-bons  and  scented  crackers,  gorgeously  gilded  and  rain 
bow  colored.  At  each  side  were  flesh-colored  masses  of  ice 
creams,  flanked  by  a  regiment  of  infinitesimal  mince  pies,  rasp 
berry  tarts,  and  triangular  cheese-cakes.  At  solemn  intervals 


]0|  NATHANIEL     PARKER      WILLIS. 

wi-rc  Maraschino,  Curagoa,  Noyau,  and  other  liqueurs,  confined 
in  small  decanters,  about  the  size  of  Eau  de  Cologne  phials,  while 
scattered  around  were  goblets  to  drink  out  of,  about  the  size  of 
overgrown  thimbles.  It  was  a  diabolical  improvement  (so 
far  as  starvation  went)  on  the  feast  of  Tantalus.  A  glass  of 
water  would  have  had  a  gigantic  look  in  our  friend's  eyes  per 
fectly  titanic.  A  narrower  scrutiny  discovered  to  his  longing 
sight  two  dishes,  one  a  tureen  of  palish,  green-looking  water, 
where  there  were  a  few  diminutive  new  potatoes,  swimming  for 
their  lives,  and  trying  to  escape,  which  they  did  with  ease,  from 
the  abortive  efforts  of  our  friend,  who,  with  a  ladle,  was  doing 
his  best  to  capture  ©ne,  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  his  appetite. 

The  other  dish  was  one  of  fritters,  and  presented  the  ap 
pearance  of  having  been  made  out  of  Sir  Edward's  kid  gloves 
dipped  in  batter,  and  then  elaborately  fried.  We  must  draw 
a  veil  over  our  friend's  sufferings.  After  securing  a  spoonful 
of  jelly — one  of  the  afore-named  small  forced-meat  balls — 
a  portion  of  truffle,  evanescent  and  shadowy  as  mist — (not 
half  so  substantial  as  a  good  wholesome  London  November 
fog,  which  at  times  is  so  thick  that  it  can  be  easily  cut  cling 
ing  to  the  knife)— and  a  glass-thimbleful  of  maraschino— our 
friend  drove  home  in  his  gig  through  the  chill  evening 
air,  with  his  teeth  chattering  to  themselves,  and  trying  to 
console  his  importunate  gastric  juice  and  empty  stomach. 

He  astonished  his  wife  and  household  on  his  return  home 
by  eating  seriatim  everything  in  the  house  in  the  way  of  flesh, 
from  a  haunch  of  mutton  down  to  a  ham  bone,  and  from 
the  new  bread  down  to  the  stale  crust. 

Mr.  Willis's  productions  very  much  resemble  Sir  Edward's 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  105 

dejeuner:  elegant,  tasteful,  and  unsubstantial,  they  offer  but 
poor  satisfaction  to  the  wholesome  appetite  of  a  healthy 
guest. 

Mr.  Willis  leaves  on  us  the  impression  that  he  is  not 
in  earnest ;  that  he  has  no  fixed  principles,  except  a  fastidious, 
but  very  artificial  taste.  There  is  a  want  of  healthiness  about 
his  mind,  which  leaves  robustness  altogether  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  The  color  on  the  cheeks  of  his  muse  is  not  the  rosy 
freshness  of  health,  but  the  carmine  of  the  dressing-room ;  her 
attitudes  are  the  result  of  the  dancing-master,  and  not  of 
native  grace ;  there  is  more  of  the  Aspasia  than  the  Vestal 
in  her  manners  and  discourse,  always  deducting  the  wit  of 
the  celebrated  Grecian  beauty.  It  has  always  appeared  to 
us  that  foreign  travel,  which  steadies  and  consolidates  the 
true  poet,  has  a  deteriorating  influence  on  the  mere  man 
of  elegant  susceptibilities.  To  be  sure,  every  true  poet  has 
a  taste,  but  it  is  a  natural  relish  for  truth,  and  not  a 
craving  for  excitement.  The  palate  of  health  can  derive  de 
light  and  sustenance  from  a  crust  and  a  draught  from  the  crys 
tal  spring,  and  does  not  require  its  appetite  to  be  provoked 
by  the  ragouts  of  Paris  or  the  curries  of  the  Indies.  In  short, 
the  attraction  of  Mr.  Willis's  muse  proceeds  rather  from  the 
hectic  of  consumption  and  disease,  than  from  the  blushing 
glow  and  grace  of  buxom  health:  its  energy  is  the  effect 
of  stimulants,  and  not  the  result  of  symmetrical  elasticity 
and  genuine  cheerfulness. 

To  produce  an  effect  by  contrast  let  us  create  the  opposite 
of  the  being  personified  by  Collins,  and  we  have  the  female 
Frankenstein  muse  of  Mr.  Willis. 


lUtf  NATHANIEL     PARKER     WILLIS. 

****** 

«  When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 

Her  how  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Fawn  and  Dryad  known ; 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green ; 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear, 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear." 

We  cannot  avoid  mentioning  as  a  peculiarity  in  Mr.  Willis's 
writings  the  singular  fact  that  the  majority  of  his  illustrations 
proceed  from  articles  of  female  clothing.  When  we  read 
with  the  intention  of  noticing  this  peculiarity  the  effect  is 
very  comical ;  first  one  allusion,  then  another,  until  at  length 
a  roar  of  laughter  follows  the  experiment,  and  convinces  us 
we  have  proved  our  point. 

There  is  also  at  times  a  most  inappropriate  use  of  "  adjec 
tives,"  such  as  these,  "porphyry  eyes," — or  likening  a  lady's 
bosom  to  "a  shelf  of  alabaster."  Indeed  Mr.  Willis  would 
be  nothing  without  his  adjectives. 

Some  humorous  poet  wrote  once, 

"  Without  black  velvet  breeches,  what  is  man  ?" 

A  critic  might  substitute  "  adjectives"  for  "velvet  smalls,"  and 
exclaim  in  like  manner. 

It  i<  related  of  Nollekens,  that  once  when  his  wife,  who  was 
proverbially  a   passionate   woman,  was   so  angry  as   to   stop 


NATHANIEL      PARKER      WILLIS.  107 

in  the  midst  of  her  vituperation,  lie  cried  out  during  her 
speechless  trance :  "If  you  are  short  of  adjectives,  my  dear, 
swear,  it  will  ease  you  so  /" 

The  author  of  "  Rural  Letters "  never  allows  his  deficiency 
to  carry  him  into  the  realms  of  abjuration,  but  we  sometimes 
involuntarily  think  of  the  sculptor's  wife  when  we  read  his 
characteristic  productions. 

In  person,  Mr.  Willis  is  tall  and  elegantly  made.  His 
manners  are  courtebus,  and  he  has  the  polish  of  high-breeding  ; 
his  hair  is  light  brown  ;  and  altogether  he  leaves  the  impres 
sion  of  the  English  gentleman,  refined  by  travel  and  obser 
vation,  lie  is  an  elaborate  dresser,  and  is  estimable  in  his 
private  relations. 


108 


EDGAR      ALLAN      POE 


EDGAB  ALLAN   POE. 


As  the  grave  has  closed  over  the  poet,  we  shall  give  a 
short  biographical  sketch  of  him. 

Edgar  Poe  was  the  son  of  David  Foe  and  Elizabeth  Arnold. 
His  father  was  the  fourth  son  of  General  Poe,  a  name  well 
known  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  Some  little  interest  is 
attached  to  his  memory  from  the  fact  of  General  Lafayette, 
during  his  memorable  visit  to  this  country,  making  a  pilgrimage 
to  his  grave. 

Mr.  David  Poe  had  three  children — Henry,  Edgar  (the  poet), 
and  Rosalie.  On  the  death  of  their  parents  Edgar  and  Rosalie 
were  adopted  by  a  wealthy  merchant  of  the  name  of  Allan. 
Having  no  children,  Mr.  Allan  unhesitatingly  avowed  to  all 
his  intention  of  making  Edgar  his  heir. 

In  1816  the  subject  of  this  memoir  was  taken  by  his  adopted 
parents  to  England,  and  after  making  with  them  the  tour  of 
Scotland,  he  was  left  for  five  years  to  complete  his  education  at 
Dr.  Bransby's,  of  Stoke  Newington.  The  curious  reader  will 
find  a  description  of  this  school  in  one  of  Poe's  sketches  called 
''William  Wilson." 

Returning  to  America  he  went  to  \7arious  academies,  and 


EDGAR     ALLAN      POfi.  109 

finally  to  the  University  of  Virginia,  at  Charlottesville.  The 
dissolute  manners  of  the  Institution  infected  him,  and  he  was 
no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  His  abilities,  notwithstanding, 
enabled  him  to  maintain  a  respectable  position  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Professors.  His  time  here  was  divided  between  lectures, 
debating  societies,  rambles  in  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains,  and 
in  making  caricatures  of  his  tutors  and  the  heads  of  the  col 
lege.  We  are  informed  he  had  the  habit  of  covering  the  walls 
of  his  sleeping-room  with  these  rough  charcoal  sketches. 
Rousing  himself  from  this  desultory  course  of  life,  he  took  the 
first  honors  of  the  college  and  returned  home. 

To  escape  from  the  reproaches  of  his  friends,  and  possibly 
from  the  consequences  of  his  thoughtlessness,  he  formed  the 
design,  in  conjunction  with  a  friend,  of  visiting  Greece,  with  the 
intention  of  aiding  the  Revolution  then  in  progress  in  that 
classic  land.  His  companion,  Ebenezer  Burling,  abandoned  the 
rash  design  almost  as  soon  as  projected,  but  the  energetic 
nature  of  the  poet  was  not  so  easily  turned  aside  from  his  path. 
He  proceeded,  therefore,  as  far  as  St.  Petersburg,  where  he  had 
a  narrow  escape  from  the  fangs  of  that  brutal  government,  in 
consequence  of  an  irregularity  in  his  passport.  The  exertions 
of  the  Consul  saved  him  from  the  consequences  of  the  error, 
and  through  his  friendship  he  returned  to  America. 

Here  he  found  a  great  change  awaiting  him.  His  benefac 
tress,  Mrs.  Allan,  was  dead  ;  he  reached  Richmond  the  day  after 
her  funeral.  This  was  the  origin  of  all  his  subsequent  misfor 
tunes.  After  an  apparent  reconciliation  with  Mr.  Allan,  he 
entered  West  Point  Academy,  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  a 
military  life.  Here  he  entered  upon  his  new  studies  and  duties 

5* 


JH)  EDGAk      ALLAN      POE. 

with  characteristic  energy,  and  an  honorable  career  was  opened 
to  him ;  but  the  Fates  willed  that  Mr.  Allan  should  in  his 
dotage  many  a  girl  young  enough  to  be  her  husband's  grand 
daughter.  The  birth  of  a  child  convinced  Mr.  Poe  that  his 
hopes  to  inherit  his  adopted  father's  property  were  at  an  end, 
and  he  consequently  left  West  Point,  resolving  to  proceed  to 
Poland,  to  join  the  struggle  for  liberty  then  making  by  that 
heroic  nation  against  her  diabolical  oppressors.  The  fall  of 
Warsaw  ended  the  conflict,  and  our  chivalric  poet  was  again 
deprived  of  his  intention. 

He  therefore  proceeded  to  Baltimore,  where  he  learned  the 
death  of  Mr.  Allan.  As  he  had  left  him  nothing,  he  was  now 
thrown  upon  the  world  well  nigh  resourceless.  It  is  said  that 
this  man's  widow  even  refused  him  his  own  books* 

About  this  time  came  the  turning  point  in  Mr.  Poe's  life. 
Nature  had  given  him  a  poetical  mind  ;  accident  now  afforded 
the  opportunity  for  its  development 

The  Editors  of  the  Baltimore  Visitor  had  offered  a  premium 
for  the  best  prose  tale,  and  also  one  for  the  best  poem.  The 
umpires  were  men  of  taste  and  ability,  and,  after  a  careful 
consideration  of  the  productions,  they  decided  that  Mr.  Poe  was 
undoubtedly  entitled  to  both  prizes.  As  Mr.  Poe  was  entirely 
unknown  to  them,  this  was  a  genuine  tribute  to  his  superior 
merit. 

The  poem  he  sent  was  the  "Coliseum,"  and  six  tales  for 
their  selection.  Not  content  with  awarding  the  premiums,  they 
declared  that  the  worst  of  the  six  tales  referred  to  was  better 
than  the  best  of  the  other  competitors. 

Some  little  time  after  this  triumph  he  was  engaged  by  Mr. 


EDGAR     ALLAN      POE.  Ill 

White  to  edit  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  which  had 
been  established  about  seven  months,  and  had  attained  a  circu 
lation  of  about  four  hundred  subscribers. 

There  he  remained  for  nearly  two  years,  devoting  the  energies 
of  his  rich  and  ingenious  mind  to  the  interest  of  the  Review ;  so 
much  was  he  regarded  there  that  when  he  left  he  had  raised  the 
circulation  of  the  journal  to  above  three  thousand. 

Very  much  of  this  success  was  owing  to  the  fearlessness  of 
his  criticisms.  Always  in  earnest,  he  was  either  on  one  side  or 
the  other ;  he  had  a  scorn  of  the  respectable  level  trash  which 
has  too  long  brooded  like  a  nightmare  over  American  Literature. 
Mr.  Poe  did  not  like  tamely  to  submit  to  the  dethronement  of 
genius,  and  the  instalment  of  a  feeble,  sickly  grace,  and  an 
amiable  mediocrity.  What  gods  and  men  abhor,  according  to 
Horace,  a  certain  class  of  critics  and  readers  in  America  adore. 
America  is  jealous  of  her  victories  by  sea  and  land — is  proud 
of  advantages  with  which  she  has  nothing  to  do,  such  as 
Niagara,  the  Mississippi,  and  the  other  wonders  of  nature.  An 
American  points  with  pride  to  the  magnificent  steamboats  which 
ride  the  waters  like  things  of  life.  Foreigners  sometimes 
smile  at  the  honest  satisfaction,  even  enthusiasm,  which  lights 
up  the  national  face  when  a  few  hundred  troops  file  down 
Broadway,  to  discordant  drums  and  squeaking  fifes.  But  all 
their  natural  feeling  and  national  pride  stop  here.  So  far  from 
the  American  public  taking  any  interest  in  their  own  men  of 
genius — in  the  triumphs  of  mind — they  absolutely  allow  others 
openly  to  conspire,  and  put  down  every  attempt  to  establish  a 
National  Literature. 

The  Americans  are  a  shrewd  and  far-seeing  people,  but  they 


112  EDGAR     ALLAN     POE. 

are  somewhat  too  material ;  they  must  not  believe  that  a 
nation  can  long  exist  without  men  of  thought,  as  well  as  men  of 
action.  The  salvation  of  America  lies  in  the  possession  of  a 
Republican  Literature.  The  literature  of  England  is  slowly 
sapping  the  foundation  of  her  institutions.  England  does  all  her 
thinking,  and  if  this  system  continues,  the  action  of  this  great 
nation  will  be  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  the  old  country. 
Like  the  Gulf  Stream  of  Florida,  the  current  of  aristocratical 
genius  is  slowly  drifting  the  ark  of  America  to  a  point  they 
little  dream  of,  and  never  intend.  The  very  bulk  of  this  coun 
try  renders  the  operation  unseen ;  but,  though  imperceptible  to 
the  eye,  it  is  palpable  to  the  mind,  and  certain  in  its  results. 

What  hope  of  victory  would  the  armies  and  navies  of  this 
young  republic  have  had,  if,  when  they  were  arming  for  the 
fight,  the  bystanders  had  discouraged  them;  or  when  sailing  to  the 
encounter,  the  jibes  or  indifference  of  their  fellow-citizens  had  been 
expressed  ?     Certain  defeat  and  disgrace,  as  sure  as  heaven ! 
And  how  can  America  expect  her  young  authors  to  vindicate 
her  national  glory  when  she  treats  them  with  indifference  and 
neglect.    Nay,  even  worse,  she  openly  discourages  them  in  their 
attempt,  and  tacitly  confesses  that  it   is   hopeless  to  compete 
with  the  writers  of  England  or  France.     These  remarks  apply 
to  every  branch  of  American  literature ;  let  the  people  con 
sider  this  matter,  and  remedy  it  before  they  find  the  republican 
form  governed  by  a  foreign  and  aristocratical  mind.     If  luxury 
enervated  the  Roman  Body,  so  will  a  foreign  pabulum  destroy 
the  American  Mind. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  worst  enemies  of  the  national  mind 
have  been  a  few  of  her  own  sons.    These  are  authors  who  till 


EDGAR     ALLAN      POE.  113 

lately  have  entirely  enjoyed  the  monopoly  of  the  English  mar 
ket  ;  now  they  will  be  obliged  to  join  the  body  of  native  authors, 
and  hurry  to  the  rescue.  So  long  as  they  could  trespass  on  the 
mistaken  courtesy  of  the  British  publishers,  and  get  four  thou 
sand  guineas  for  this  Life  of  Columbus,  and  two  hundred 
guineas  for  that  Typee,  there  was  no  occasion  for  any  inter 
ference  ;  in  fact,  they  were  materially  benefited  by  this  crying 
injustice  to  the  great  body  of  authors.  Now  their  own  rights 
are  in  jeopardy,  and  they  must  join  the  ranks  of  International 
Copyright. 

"We  cannot  help  here  remarking  that  if  we  were  an  Ameri 
can  author,  we  should  compel  certain  writers  to  account  for 
their  past  apathy  and  their  present  activity ;  as,  however,  we 
wish  to  close  these  remarks  with  good-humor,  we  shall  quote 
a  little  anecdote  which  has  gone  the  round  of  society  in 
England.  It  also  evidences  that  Janus-faced  figure  which 
every  fact  and  fiction  possesses  for  the  human  thought. 

Owing  to  some  accident  there  are  two  portraits  of  an 
author  in  Mr.  Murray's  private  office,  in  Albemarle  street, 
A  friend  inquiring  of  him  one  day  the  cause  of  this  super 
abundant  reverence  for  the  great  writer,  received  for  reply : 
"Really,  I  cannot  account  for  it  on  any  other  ground  than 
the  fact  that  I  have  lost  twice  as  much  by  that  author 
as  by  any  other." 

Although  somewhat  irrelevant  the  mention  of  Mr.  Murray's 
name  reminds  us  of  a  joke  played  off  by  Byron  upon  that 
prince  of  publishers.  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  was  our  informant. 

The  "moody  Childe"  had  given  to  Murray  as  a  birthday 
present  a  Bible  magnificently  bound,  and  which  he  enriched 


114  EDGAR     ALLAN     POti. 

l.y  a  very  flattering  inscription.  This  was  laid  by  the  grateful 
pul.lisher  on  his  drawing-room  table,  and  somewhat  osten 
tatiously  displayed  to  all  comers.  One  evening,  as  a  large 
company  were  gathered  around  the  table,  one  of  the  guests 
happened  to  open  the  Testament,  and  saw  some  writing  in 
the  margin.  Calling  to  Murray,  he  said :  "  Why,  Byron  has 
written  something  here!"  Narrower  inspection  proved  that 
the  profane  wit  had  erased  the  word  "  robber "  in  the  text 
and  substituted  that  of  "  publisher,"  so  that  the  passage  read 
thus :  "  Now,  Barabbas  was  a  publisher !"  The  legend  goes 
on  to  state  that  the  book  disappeared  that  very  night  from 
the  drawing-room  table. 

After  this  digression  we  must  return  to  our  poet's  fortunes. 

Mr.  Poe  abandoned  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger " 
to  assist  Professors  Anthon,  Henry,  and  Hawks  in  the  con 
ducting  of  the  "  New  York  Quarterly  Review."  Here  he  came 
down  pretty  freely  with  his  critical  axe,  and  made  many  ene 
mies.  At  the  end  of  a  year  he  went  to  Philadelphia,  and 
amused  himself  by  writing  for  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine," 
since  merged  into  Graham's.  His  criticisms  here,  as  usual, 
occasioned  much  discussion. 

Mr.  Poe's  first  volume  of  poems  was  a  modest  pamphlet, 
called  "  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems,  by  a  Vir 
ginian."  It  was  published  at  Boston,  in  his  fifteenth  year. 
The  following  lines  were  written  two  years  previous;  they 
exhibit  great  promise  for  a  boy  of  thirteen. 

"TO   HELEN. 

"  Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me, 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 


EDGAR    ALLAN    PO£»  115 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore> 
To  his  own  native  shore* 

"  On  desperate  seas  long  Wont  to  roanlj 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face> 
Thy  naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home) 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

*'  Lo !  in  yon  brilliant  window  niche, 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 
Ah !  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land." 


There  is  a  confused  and  misty  classic  Reminiscence  about 
these  lines  which  shows  the  poetical  mind  in  its  first  dreamy 
efforts  to  realize. 

A  second  edition  of  this  volume  was  published  in  Baltimore 
in  182 7;  and  a  third,  we  are  informed,  during  the  author's 
cadetship  at  West  Point. 

We  are  much  struck  with  a  poem  entitled  "  Ligrea."  It 
is  intended  as  a  personification  of  music.  It  is  too  long  to 
quote  entire  ;  we  must,  however,  find  space  for  a  few  stanzas. 
For  a  boy  of  fourteen  it  is  certainly  a  singular  production,  and 
evidences  a  psychological  development  painfully  precocious,  and 
indicative  of  future  sorrow. 

There  is  a  peculiarity  of  rhythm  in  all   Mr.  Poe's  verses 


116  EDGAR     ALLAN     POE. 

which  is  attractive,  although  occasionally  exhibiting  too  much 
of  their  mechanical  nature. 

This  is  the  "  Spirit's  Invocation." 

"  Spirit,  that  dwellest  where 

In  the  deep  sky 
The  terrible  and  fair 

In  beauty  vie. 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue, 

The  boundary  of  the  star, 
That  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar. 

*  *  * 
Bright  beings  that  ponder 

With  half-closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  grave  wonder 
Hath  drawn  from  the  skies. 

*  *  * 

Up !  shake  from  your  wings 
All  hindering  things, 
The  dew  of  the  night 
Will  weigh  down  your  flight, 
And  true-love  caresses — 

Oh !  leave  them  apart, 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 

*  *  * 
The  sound  of  the  rain, 

That  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 
In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower. 


EDGAR      ALLAN     POE.  117 

The  murmur  that  springs 

From  the  growing  of  grass, 
Are  the  music  of  things, 

But  are  modelled — alas  !" 


It  is  evident  to  all  that  the  melody  of  the  young  poet  was 
here,  and  only  required  study  and  opportunity  to  come  out  in 
glorious  and  enduring  shapes. 

In  the  ensuing  extract  we  have  a  singular  phase  of  the  youth 
ful  mind — dreamy,  confused ;  yet  in  this  misty  vision  we  see  a 
world  of  order  forming.  It  is  evidently  inspired  by  some  of 
Keats. 

"  Ours  is  a  world  of  words :  Quiet  we  call 
Silence,  which  is  the  veriest  word  of  all. 
Here  nature  speaks,  and  evil  ideal  things 
Flap  shadowy  hands  for  visionary  wings. 
A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  heaven  let  down, 
Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown, 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  chain, 
And  hallowed  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 
Save  when  between  the  empyrean  and  that  ring 
Some  eager  spirit  flapped  his  dusky  wing. 
Within  the  centre  of  this  hall  to  breathe 
She  paused,  and  panted  Zanthe !  all  beneath 
The  brilliant  light  that  kissed  her  golden  hair, 
And  long  to  rest,  yet  could  not  sparkle  there. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 
Her  cheek  was  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart, 
And  zone,  that  clung  about  her  gentle  waist, 
Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart." 


]  1 5  K  D  G  A  R      A  L  L  A  M      1'  O  E  . 

"When  critical  readers  object  to  the  laborious  combination 
of  images  here,  let  it  be  remembered  this  was  the  composition 
of  a  boy.  This,  however,  if  carried  out  strictly,  becomes  a 
very  serious  drawback  upon  our  estimate  of  Mr.  Poe's  genius, 
for  we  do  not  find,  as  a  poet,  he  made  much  progress  from 
fourteen  to  forty.  His  prose  grew  firmer,  more  thoughtful, 
fuller  of  artistic  effects  every  year  he  wrote,  as  his  numerous 
tales  unmistakably  testify ;  but  his  verses  seemed  modelled  on 
his  earliest  school.  Of  all  poets  he  seems  earliest  to  have 
caught  the  trick  of  verse.  His  schoolboy  effusions  possess  the 
glow  of  his  more  matured  efforts ;  and  with  the  exception  of  two 
or  three  productions,  where  the  ingenuity  of  the  mechanical 
construction  shows  the  man's  thought,  there  is  nothing  to  demar 
cate  one  poem  from  another. 

That  development  of  progressive  power  so  naturally  visible 
in  all  the  productions  of  a  great  mind  is  not  traceable  in  our 
author's  verse,  but,  with  a  singular  psychological  contradiction, 
is  evident  throughout  his  other  writings. 

In  this  short  extract  we  may  observe  much  of  the  after  man. 

"  Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light, 
She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 
And  that  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  earth, 
And  died  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 
Bursting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit,  to  wing 
Its  way  to  heaven  from  garden  of  a  king. 
And  Valisnerian  Lotus  thither  flown, 
From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone, 
And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume  Zante, 
[sola  d'  oro— fior  de  Levante, 


EDGAlt      ALLAN      POtt.  Ill) 

And  the  Nelumbo  bud  that  floats  for  ever, 
With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  Holy  River." 

This  description  of  poetry  is,  of  all  others,  the  most  difficult 
to  judge  from.  It  possesses  so  many  features  of  the  composite 
order  that  we  know  not  how  much  belongs  to  the  memory  or 
the  imagination.  Still  there  is  a  flow  of  music  throughout 
which  convinces  the  most  sceptical  of  the  presence  of  poetic 
susceptibilities  and  power  of  sound. 

In  his  sonnet  to  Science  we  have  a  clearer  insight  into  our 
author's  mode  of  dealing  with  thought  in  an  emphatic  manner : 

"  Science,  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art : 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  piercing  eyes, 
Why  prey'st  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 
Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem  thee  wise 
Who  would'st  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 
Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing  ] 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car, 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood, 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  state  ? 
Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree "?" 


This  is  certainly  a  tine  sonnet,  and  contains  an  agreeable 
mixture  of  classical  reminiscence  and  personal  romance. 

Without  in  any  way  meaning  to  convey  to  the  reader  the 


120  EDGAR     ALLAN     POE. 

idea  of  imitation,  we  cannot  help  quoting,  as  an  agreeable  com 
panion  to  the  above,  Wordsworth's  sonnet  embodying  similar 
regrets.  It  is  justly  considered  one  of  the  old  English  Bard's 
most  finished  efforts. 


"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  or  soon, 
Getting  or  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers. 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We've  changed  our  hearts  away—  a  sordid  boon. 
Yon  sea  that  bares  its  bosom  to  the  moon  _ 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
But  are  upgathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers. 
For  this—  for  all  things  we  are  out  of  tune, 
They  move  us  not:  great  God  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
'  So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn. 
Have  sight  of  Venus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 


Of  all  the  masters  of  versification  M,  Coleridge  was  certainly 
>  one  who  made  it  a  great  feature  in  his  poetry;  but  his 
system  .vas  so  refined,  so  subtilized,  as  to  escape  the  notice  of 
-outward  senses;  its  presence  was  felt  within  by  reason  of 
fe  produced  on  the  mind  by  his  charmed  verses.     His 

rinvisiblc;  the  spen  ™  a  *****  ^  * 

'       °  "  S°me  r  •*  *  -lied  a  mechanical  or 


display  of  cabalistic         ^ 


EDGAR      ALLAN      POE.  121 

devil  draws  ostentatious  circles,  and  other  mathematical  deviltry, 
so  that  we  surrender  to  the  show,  and  not  to  the  soul  of  magic 
power  ;  it  is  really  not  too  much  to  say  that  a  fine  algebraist 
might  get  a  tolerably  correct  idea  of  some  of  the  most  charac 
teristic  of  Mr.  Poe's  verses  by  an  architectural  skeleton  or 
design  of  his  poems.  The  physique  of  melody  is  generally 
fatal  to  its  spirituality ;  but,  owing  to  a  curious  faculty  in  our 
author,  he  marvellously  escapes  detection,  except  from  a  few  of 
the  more  over  wise  and  over  curious  critics.  To  many,  we  feel 
sure  this  is  his  great  charm  ;  it  requires  a  very  nice  and  a  very 
close  analysis  to  discover  the  source  of  his  success  with  the 
many. 

That  the  author  of  the  "  Raven,"  &c.,  was  a  poet  no 
doubt  can  exist.  Extravagant  as  our  opinion  may  now  ap 
pear,  we  venture  to  say  that  in  a  few  years,  when  the 
memory  of  his  failings  shall  have  died  away,  he  will  be 
considered  one  of  America's  best  poets.  He  was  the  first 
who  arrested  our  attention,  and  conveyed  to  our  mind  the 
fact  that  a  man  of  great  peculiarity  was  speaking.  We  use 
peculiarity  out  of  a  sort  of  insecurity  and  hesitation  we  do 
not  often  feel,  otherwise  we  have  a  full  and  strong  incli 
nation  to  write  originality.  Had  we  been  in  England  we 
should  unhesitatingly  have  done  so ;  but  as  Mr.  Poe  is  only 
an  American,  we  forbear  to  move  a  second  time  the  indig 
nation  of  the  Press  by  claiming  for  a  native  of  this  great 
republic  a  common  share  of  God's  great  gift  of  intellect.  The 
day  will,  however,  come  when  all  the  objections  of  a  foreign 
Press  will  not  prevent  justice  being  done  to  the  native  genius 
of  the  land  of  Washington. 


1'2'2 


EDGAR      ALLAN      FOE. 


One  grand  distinguishing  feature  in  Mr.  Foe's  mind  is 
his  mathematical  power.  He  even  constructs  his  poetry  on 
its  basis:  in  his  prose  writings  he  carries  this  occasionally 
to  a  wearisome  extent:  it  is  also  visible  in  the  mechanical 
form  of  his  verse.  In  his  later  productions  it  is  very  strong ; 
we  more  particularly  allude  to  the  most  celebrated  of  his 
poems,  viz.  "The  Raven;"  this  is  too  well  known  to  quote 
entire,  we  shall  therefore  content  ourselves  by  giving  only 
a  few  stanzas,  in  order  to  illustrate  our  position  and  confirm 
our  assertion. 

We  cannot  dismiss  this  subject  without  paying  our  earnest 
tribute  to  the  womanhood  of  the  poet's  chief  friend,  his  wife's 
mother.  To  Mrs.  Clem  will  be  awarded  in  the  history  of 
genius  the  rarest  of  all  crowns,  the  wreath  placed  by  God's 
hands — through  his  noblest  creatures — on  woman's  beautiful 
and  matron  brow.  Even  in  her  lifetime  she  will  receive 
the  world's  acknowledgment  of  her  nobility  of  soul ;  and 
the  tongues  whom  envy  or  shame  froze  in  the  life  of  her 
gifted  but  unhappy  son-in-law,  will  thaw,  and  like  the  fable 
of  old  utter  praises  to  the  perished  one,  condemning  their 
own  wretched  selves. 

Oh !  that  a  hand  would  arise,  who,  carefully  registering 
the  arts  of  these  wretched  shams  of  humanity — these  suits 
of  dress  with  a  patent  digester  placed  inside — would  whip 
them  naked  through  the  world ;  when — after  persecuting  the 
prophets,  and  guarding  the  clothes  of  the  murderers— they, 
terrified  into  a  mongrel  and  disgusting  recognition  of  genius, 
audaciously  join  in  the  procession,  as  though  they  were  the 
genuine  mourners  of  the  martyred  man. 


EDGAR      ALLAN      FOE.  123 

We  will  not  dwell  long  on  the  darkness  of  our  poet's 
fate :  his  errors  were  many  and  grievous.  We  all  know 
how  greedily  the  dull  and  the  malignant  catch  at  any  straws 
to  save  them  from  perishing  in  their  own  self-contempt, 
for  it  is  given  to  every  man  to  feel  his  own  low  nature 
as  compared  with  the  lords  of  mind. 

We  have  been  told  by  those  who  knew  Mr.  Poe  well, 
that  so  weakly  strung  were  all  his  nerves,  that  the  smallest 
modicum  of  stimulant  had  an  alarming  effect  upon  him, 
and  produced  actions  scarcely  resolvable  by  sanity.  It  may 
be  said  that  it  is  not  the  quantity  of  stimulant,  but  the 
effect  produced,  which  constitutes  the  drunkard,  and  that 
Mr.  Poe  was  as  much  to  blame  for  the  inebriation  of  a 
glass  as  of  a  bottle ;  but  we  would  tell  these  cold-blooded 
fishes — for  they  are  not  men — that  it  is  not  given  to  the 
common-place  men  either  to  feel  the  raptures  of  poetical 
inspiration,  or  the  despondency  of  prostrated  energies.  The 
masses  are  wisely,  as  Pope  says, 

"  Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever." 

There  is  a  homely  verse  in  an  old   ballad   which  was   made 
upon  Shakspeare's  masterpiece  of  human  philosophy : 

"  Hamlet  loved  a  maid ; 
Calumny  had  passed  her : 
She  never  had  played  tricks — 
Because  nobody  had  asked  her." 

This   rough    and   unconditional    doggrel    gives   a  graphic 


124  EDGAR     ALLAN      POE. 

insight  into  the  proprieties  of  the  masses :  they  have  neither 
had  the  impulse  nor  the  opportunity  to  be  indiscreet.  Let 
our  readers  clearly  understand  we  are  not  the  apologists 
of  Mr.  Poe's  errors — as  Mark  Antony  says, 

"  We  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him ;" 

but,  at  the  same  time,  we  will  not  allow  any  undue  defer 
ence  to  the  opinion  of  the  world. 

We  are  glad  to  be  confirmed  in  this  by  the  testimony  of  the 
Editor  of  the  Home  Journal,  a  gentleman  not  only  distinguished 
for  his  sympathy  with  men  of  genius,  but  also  for  the  respect 
lie  pays  the  proprieties  of  life. 

We  quote  the  following  manly  tribute  to  his  "  dead  brother 
in  verse :" 

"  Some  four  or  five  years  since,  when  editing  a  daily  paper  in 
this  city,  Mr.  Poe  was  employed  by  us  for  several  months  as  critic 
and  sub-editor.  This  was  our  first  personal  acquaintance  with  him. 
He  resided  with  his  wife  and  mother,  at  Fordham,  a  few  miles  out 
of  town,  but  was  at  his  desk  in  the  office  from  nine  in  the  morning 
till  the  evening  paper  went  to  press.  With  the  highest  admiration 
for  his  genius,  and  a  willingness  to  let  it  atone  for  more  than  ordi 
nary  irregularity,  we  were  led  by  common  report  to  expect  a  very 
capricious  attention  to  his  duties,  and  occasionally  a  scene  of  vio 
lence  and  difficulty.  Time  went  on,  however,  and  he  was  invaria 
bly  punctual  and  industrious.  *  *  *  With  a  prospect  of  taking 
the  lead  in  another  periodical,  he  at  last  voluntarily  gave  up  his 
employment  with  us,  and  through  all  this  considerable  period,  we 
had  seen  but  one  presentment  of  the  man — a  quiet,  patient,  indus 
trious,  and  most  gentlemanly  person,  commanding  the  utmost 
respect  and  good  feeling,  by  his  unvarying  deportment  and  ability. 


EDGAR     ALLAN      POE.  125 

"  Residing  as  he  did  in  the  country,  we  never  met  Mr.  Poe  in 
hours  of  leisure ;  but  he  frequently  called  on  us  afterwards  at  our 
place  of  business,  and  we  met  him  often  in  the  street — invariably 
the  same  sad-mannered,  winning,  and  refined  gentleman,  such  as  we 
had  always  known  him.     It  was  by  rumor  only,  up  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  that  we  knew  of  any  other  development  of  manner  or 
character.     We  heard,  from  one  who  knew  him  well  (what  should 
be  stated  in  all  mention  of  his  lamentable  irregularities)  that,  with 
a  single  glass  of  wine  his  whole  nature  was  reversed,  the  demon 
became  uppermost,  and,  though  none  of  the  usual  signs  of  intoxi 
cation  were  visible,  his  will  was  palpably  insane.     Possessing  his 
reasoning  faculties  in  excited  activity,  at  such  times,  and  seeking  his 
acquaintances  with  his  wonted  look  and  memory,  he  easily  seemed 
personating  only  another  phase  of  his  natural  character,  and  was 
accused,  accordingly,  of  insulting  arrogance  and  bad-heartedness.  * 
*    *     The  arrogance,  vanity,  and  depravity  of  heart  of  which  Mr. 
Poe  was  generally  accused,  seem  to  us  referable  altogether  to  this 
reversed  phase  of  his  character.     Under  that  degree  of  intoxication 
which  only  acted  upon  him  by  demonizing  his  sense  of  truth  and 
right,  he  doubtless  said  and  did  much  that  was  wholly  irreconcilable 
with  his  better  nature ;  but,  when  himself,  and  as  we  knew  him 
only,  his  modesty  and  unaffected  humility  as  to  his  own  deservings 
were  a  constant  charm  to  his  character." 


Tbe  peculiar  cadence  of  the  poet's  soul — somewhat,  perhaps, 
too  artificially  forced  upon  the  attention,  is  well  developed  in  the 
little  poem  of  Annabel  Lee.  It  is  evidently  an  echo  of 
"  Christabel,"  but  it  is  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  charms  the  ear, 
if  it  does  not  strike  the  mind  as  an  original.  There  is  a  haunt 
ing  sense  of  beauty  about  the  metrical  arrangement  of  Poe'* 


12J  EDOAR     A1LAN     FOE. 

verses  which  is  always  evidence   of   a   finely  strung  nervous 
system. 

ANNABEL   LEE. 

« It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

"  /  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

"  And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea." 

The  next  line  is  a  striking  proof  of  that  mixture  of  puerility 
and  beauty,  which,  like  the  conflict   of  his  own  discordant 


EDGAR     ALLAN     POE.  127 

nature,  renders  his  writings  as  well  as  himself  a  problem  to  his 
fellow  men. 

There  is  great  force  and  beauty  in 

"  The  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night," 

and  yet  how  immediately  he  spoils  the  effect  for  the  sake  of  the 
jingle  of  "  chilling  and  killing — " 

"  The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

"  But  our  love,  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  are  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

"  For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ;  1 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea — 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea." 


128  EDGAR     ALLAN      POE. 

Well  known  as  the  "  Kaven  "  is,  we  should  leave  the  poetical 
idea  of  him  incomplete  without  illustrating  our  remarks  by  a 
quotation.  We  have  printed  the  stanzas  differently  in  shape  to 
the  method  he  has  followed,  but  the  words  are  of  course 
unaltered. 


"  Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 

*  'Tis  some  visitor,'  I  muttered, 

*  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more.'  " 

The  next  stanza  closes  with  one  of  the  finest  touches  of 
poetical  imagery  and  pathos. 

"  For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

As  Coleridge  says,  "beautiful  exceedingly" 

The  mechanical  structure  of  the  verse  is  very  apparent  when 

read  with  attention  to  the  pauses.   Nevertheless,  it  is  a  poem  which 

11  always  give  pleasure  to  the  reader,  even  though  it  be  read 

e  hundredth  tin* ;  for,  notwithstanding  the  marked  arith- 


EDGAR     ALLAN     POE.  129 

metic  of  the  shape,  it  is  one  of  those  few  productions  which 
bear  repetition  without  palling. 

"  Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 
Long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whispered  word  *  Lenore  !' 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo 

Murmured  back  the  word  '  Lenore  !' 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

"  Back  into  the  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before. 
«  Surely,'  said  I, '  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment 

And  this  mystery  explore ; — 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more  1' 

"  Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore; 


130  EDGAR     ALLAN      POE. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ; 

Not  an  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more." 

The  last  stanza  is  very  felicitous. 

How  visibly  the  poet's  intention  to  produce  effect  by  the 
outer  shape  of  verse  is  here  made  apparent : 

js.  "  Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 
My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
1  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,'  I  said,  'art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  raven 

Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore- 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !' 

Quoth  the  raven, '  Nevermore.' " 

"  Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  foot-falls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
1  Wretch,'  I  cried,  <  thy  God  hath  lent  thee, 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
nepenthe 


\ 
EDGAR     ALLAN      POE.  131 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore !' 
Quoth  the  raven, '  Nevermore.'" 

" '  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 
Bird  or  fiend  !'  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and 

Take  thy  form  from  off  my  door !' 
Quoth  the  raven  '  Nevermore.' 

"  And  the  raven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming, 

Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore !" 

Although  his  mechanical  art  is  too  visible,  we  cannot  with 
hold  our  praise  for  the  success  of  the  attempt.     Coleridge  was  a 


132  EDGAR     ALLAN     POE. 


great  master  of  the  musical  chords  of  verse,  but  he  superadded 
a  charm  which  spiritualized  the  vehicle  of  his  thought. 

In  Mr.  Poe  we  miss  this  power,  and  consequently  we  feel 
at  times  inclined  to  consider  the  whole  affair  as  machine 
poetiy,  so  far  as  the  outer  shape  is  concerned.  But  here  Mr. 
Poe  has  not  done  himself  justice ;  he  has  wilfully  made  his 
mechanical  artifice  so  prominent,  as  to  intercept  the  effect 
of  his  own  poetical  spirit.  He  has  encumbered  it  with  a  need 
less  ornament,  which  resembles  a  scaffolding  so  interwoven 
with  the  structure,  as  to  persuade  the  beholder  it  is  essential 
for  the  very  support  of  the  building. 

We  need  hardly  point  out  the  injurious  effect  this  has 
had  upon  Mr.  Poe's  reputation  as  a  man  of  genius,  for  such 
he  undoubtedly  was. 

Nor  was  his  power  confined  to  poetry  alone.     As  a  prose 
writer  he  was  one  of  the  most  peculiar  of  his  age  ;  his  stories 
have  a  circumstantiality  about  them  perfectly  marvellous  ;  they 
seem  bewilderingly  true;  the  most  astounding  contradictions 
are  accounted  for,  and  a  combination  of  improbabilities  seems 
>   meet  as   matter   of  course.     This   of  necessity   implies   a 
-,  in   our  estimate  of  the   w.rd,  although   many  acute 
wnters  merely  term  it   ingenious.     We  would  say  above  all 
rs  of  American  prose  and  verse,  M,  Poe  is  undoubt- 
ldly  the  m°st  Pecu]iar-    Now  that  the  grave  has  made  him 
•  -  the  eyes   of  the  world,  he  will  have  a  school  of 

1TV11  rar/^vo      ^-^,3     j_l    •  «-*i 


EDGAR     ALLAN     POfi.  133 

state  that  we  think  his  circumstantiality  becomes  tedious,  and 
that  his  over-anxiety  to  make  every  improbability  fit  into 
another  improbability,  so  as  to  form  a  consecutive  chain  out 
of  inconsistencies,  throws  very  often  a  doubt  over  the  whole 
story,  and  defeats  his  own  object.  We  cannot  illustrate  this 
better  than  by  relating  a  little  anecdote  we  heard  in  our 
boyhood. 

A  certain  Gascon  nobleman,  famous  for  his  enormous  fables, 
which  he  always  swore  were  true,  had  a  sycophant,  who, 
whenever  his  patron's  guests  seemed  staggering  into  unbelief 
by  some  outrageous  Munchausen,  was  appealed  to  as  a  kind 
of  witness  to  testify  and  confirm  the  truth  of  the  story  in 
question. 

At  an  entertainment  one  day,  the  Gascon  lord  was  peculiarly 
sublime  in  his  marvels  and  his  boastings,  and  encouraged 
by  his  guests'  capacious  swallow,  he  ventured  to  affirm  that 
he  had  a  herring  pond  in  his  park.  As  this  was  well  known 
to  be  a  salt-water  fish,  a  general  doubt  of  the  fact  was  ex 
pressed.  The  somewhat  offended  owner  of  the  pond  in  ques 
tion  appealed  to  his  convenient  friend,  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
statement.  He  readily  and  boldly  confirmed  it  in  the  fol 
lowing  manner : 

"  I  can  assure  you,  gentlemen,  that  what  my  lord  says 
is  true.  He  has  a  pond  in  his  garden  full  of  herrings  !  Ah  ! 
and  red  herrings  too." 

This  over-proving  a  case  by  capping  it  with  a  notorious 
impossibility  is  the  besetting  sin  of  Mr.  Poe's  writings,  more 
especially  of  his  prose  works.  Nevertheless  they  are  so  mar- 

6* 


134  EDGAR     ALLAN     P  O  £  * 

vellously  well  done,  that  we  are  inclined  to  think  in  a  few 
years  he  will  chiefly  be  remembered  for  his  tales,  and  that  his 
poetical  works  will  dwindle  into  a  small  compass  composed 
of  half-a-dozen  favorite  poems. 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          135 


I 

HENEY    WiDSWOETH    LONGFELLOW. 


IT  is  somewhat  unfortunate  for  Mr.  Longfellow  that  he  has 
thrown  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  his  poetical  treasure  into 
the  most  thankless  of  all  forms,  the  hexameter.  A  long 
acquaintance  justifies  us  in  the  assertion,  that  there  are  few 
American  poems  where  so  much  fine  thought  and  tender 
feeling  are  hid  as  in  "  Evangeline."  The  story  is  simple,  yet 
touching;  and  the  theme  is  the  fidelity  and  endurance  of 
betrothed  love.  Two  lovers  were  separated  on  the  eve  of 
their  marriage  to  be  reunited  in  old  age  at  the  deathbed 
of  the  intended  bridegroom.  We  are  told  by  the  historian, 
that  such  were  the  harshness  and  haste  of  the  British  govern 
ment  when  it  expelled  the  neutral  French  population  from 
Acadia,  that  many  families  were  suddenly  scattered  east  and 
west  never  to  meet  again. 

In  "  Evangeline  "  we  have  a  couple  thus  torn  apart,  spending 
their  lives  in  a  fruitless  search  for  each  other,  with  the  wasting 
fire  of  hope  deferred  wearing  their  hearts  away.  The  opening 
sketch  of  the  tranquil  lives  of  the  French  Acadians,  on  the 
Gulf  of  Minas,  is  truly  idyllic  ;  but  the  peculiarity  of  the  mea- 


136          HENRY     WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW. 

sure— to  which  the  English  language  is  so  little  adapted- 
renders  it  very  difficult  to  do  justice  in  it  even  to  the  finest 
poetry.  The  hexameter  is  the  grave  of  poetry.  It  is  the 
crowning  monotony  of  writing.  A  sort  of  stale  prose.  An 
author  like  Mr.  Longfellow  should  not  deprive  himself  of 
so  much  fame,  by  pushing  to  the  utmost  a  peculiarity  by 
which  he  had  attained,  in  so  many  quarters,  a  somewhat  unde 
served  reputation.  Imitation  has  been  charged  on  all  poets, 
and  we  know  that  the  indignation  of  Robert  Green  was  so 
soured  by  the  appropriations  of  Shakspeare,  that  he  denounced 
him  "as  a  jay  strutting  about  in  our  feathers,  and  fancying 
himself  as  the  only  Shakscene  of  the  country."  This  charge 
is  always  more  or  less  true  of  a  young  author,  and  it  is 
in  the  very  nature  of  things :  it  arises  from  the  very  suscep 
tibility  of  his  system.  The  Beautiful  is  his  idol ;  his  com 
monest  thought  is  an  anthem  to  her  praise  ;  and,  like  a  true 
disciple,  he  insensibly  adopts  the  manner  of  the  priest  he  has 
confessed  to,  till  he  himself  becomes  one  of  the  elect.  A  curious 
volume  of  psychological  biography  is  opened  to  our  study 
if  we  trace  the  young  poet  to  his  progenitor.  Life  itself 
is  an  imitation :  we  are  all  copies  of  each  other  :  the  shades 
of  difference  are  minute;  and  as  in  a  herd  of  buffaloes  one 
is  scarcely  distinguishable  from  another,  yet  each  is  as  distinct 
in  its  own  individuality  as  though  one  were  an  animalcule 
and  the  other  a  mastodon.  The  laws  of  the  intellectual  being 
are  as  recognisable  as  those  of  the  physical,  and  we  never 
yet  heard  the  right  of  a  separate  existence  denied  to  Julius 
Caesar,  Wellington,  or  Washington,  on  account  of  their  having 
had  a  parent.  On  the  same  ground  we  claim  individuality  for 


HENRY      W  A  D  S  W  0  R  T  H      LONGFELLOW.  137 

poets,  in  despite  of  their  having  founded  their  nature  on 
the  inspiration  of  another.  The  real  difference  lies  in  the 
degree  of  imitation.  The  true  poet  absorbs,  the  versifier  imi 
tates.  Every  poet  commences  with  more  or  less  of  some 
predominant  mind,  the  most  assimilant  to  his  own. 

Into  "  Evangeline  "  Mr.  Longfellow  has  thrown  more  of  his 
own  individual  poetry  than  into  any  other  production,  and 
we  shall  endeavor  to  elicit  from  it  the  most  striking  traits 
of  his  mind. 

The  opening  is  simple,  and  full  of  fine  clear  description. 


"  In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows  stretched  to  the  east 
ward, 

Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides :  but  at  stated  seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards  and  corn 
fields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain ;  and  away  to  the 

northward 

Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  station  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian  village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and  chestnut, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign  of  the 
Henries. 


138         HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW. 

The  closing  line  is  an  instance  of  that  want  of  keeping  which, 
occasionally  spoils  the  effect  of  a  fine  picture ;  it  carries  the 
reader  away  from  the  American  scene  to  the  feudal  times. 

The  heroine,  Evangeline,  is  thus  introduced ;  not  very  hap 
pily,  we  think : 

"  Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by  the 

way-side, ; 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown  shade  of 

her  tresses ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed  in  the 

meadows. 

When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noon-tide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  I  fair  in  sooth  was  the  maiden. 
Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell  from  its 

turret 

Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  ear,  as  the  priest  with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of  beads  and 

her  missal, 

Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  generations." 

The  maiden  is  loved  and  sought  by  all  the  lads  in  the  vil- 

•ge,  but  the  favored  one  is   Gabriel  Lajeunesse.     They  had 

*  educated  together,  and  they  had  grown  up  as  brother  and 

Her  father,  the  old  farmer,  is  thus  graphically  described 

m  a  few  lines  : 


MENItY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW.          139 

"  Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy  winters  J 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with  snow-flakes  \ 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as  brown  as  the 
oak4eaves4" 

Nor  is  the  picture  of  Gabriel's  sire  unworthy  to  be  placed 
by  its  side : 

"  Thus  as  they  sat,  Were  footsteps  heard,  and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back  on  hX  hinges* 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was  with  him. 
*  Welcome  !'  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps  paused  on  the 

threshold, 

'  Welcome,  Basil  my  friend !     Come,  take  thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty  without  thee ; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of  tobacco ; 
Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe,  or  the  forge,  thy  friendly  and  jovial  face 

gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the  mist  of  the 

marshes.' 

Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the  black 
smith, 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fireside*" 

The  blacksmith  comes  to  announce  the  arrival  of  a  fleet  from 
England  with  hostile  intentions, 

The  incredulity  of  the  old  farmer  is  admirably  described. 

"  Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial  farmer : 


140         HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW. 

*  Safer  we  are  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks  and  our  corn- 
fields, 

Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged  by  the  ocean, 

Than  were  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy's  cannon. 

Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth  ;  for  this  is  the  night  of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.     The  merry  lads  of  the  village 
Strongly  have  built  them  and  well  ;  and,  breaking  the  glebe  round 

about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for  a  twelve 

month. 

Rene  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and  inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  our  children?' 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father  had  spoken, 
And  as  they  died  on  his  lips  the  worthy  notary  entered." 

The  decision  of  the  English  Government  is  that  the  inhabit 
ants  of  this  happy  village  shall  be  scattered.  Mr.  Longfellow 
paints  with  great  force,  beauty,  and  tenderness,  the  departure  of 
the  villagers. 

"Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set;  and  now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheen  y  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the  farm-house. 
>oon  oer  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  procession, 
Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the  Acadian  women, 
Dnv  Lg  ,n  ponderous  wains  their  househo.d  goods  to  the  sea-shore 

,  ;  7  and  """^  tek  to  *»>  once  more  on  their  dwellings, 
>  ««.  shut  from  sight  by  the 


eir  children  ran'  and  **«  «"  «    > 

their  litt.e  hands  some  fragments  of  playthings." 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW.    141 

There  is  a  simplicity  about  many  of  the  descriptions  in 
Evangeline  which  is  very  seldom  apparent  in  his  other 
poems.  Our  readers  will,  of  course,  remember  how  well  the 
English  hexameter  sounds  for  a  dozen  lines  or  so,  but  a  poem 
in  that  measure  is  insufferably  tedious. 

The  lovers  are  separated,  and  the  end  of  the  first  part  closes 
with  the  following  beautiful  lines  : 

"  Lo  !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a  vast  congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with  the  dirges. 
'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hurrying  land 
ward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of  embarking  ; 
And,  with  the  ebb  of  that  tide,  the  ships  sailed  out  of  the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the  village  in 


The  second  part  does  not  seem  to  be  equal  to  the  first.  Still 
it  has  pieces  of  painting  worthy  of  any  poet,  and  every  fine 
image  makes  us  regret  the  injudicious  metre  it  is  written  in. 
The  wanderings  and  patient  enduring  of  Evangeline  are  told 
with  great  pathos.  Finally,  after  many  sore  heart-wastings  she 
meets  her  lover,  but  it  is  in  old  age,  and  on  his  death-bed. 

This  scene  is  thus  described : — 

"  Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a  shudder 
Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets  dropped  from 
her  fingers, 


142    HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And,  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks,   the  light  and  bloom  of  the 

morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  grey  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples ; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a  moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood  ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals, 
That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass  over, 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the  darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  for  ever  sinking  and  sinking. 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverberations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded, 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint-like, 
*  Gabriel !  O  my  beloved !'  and  died  away  in  silence." 

The  concluding   scene   of   this   tale   of    Faithful    Love    is 
exquisitely  done.     It  is  a  perfect  gem  ! 

"  Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  childhood; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them, 
Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and,  walking  under  their 

shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  unuttered 


HENRY     WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          143 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue  would 

have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise ;  and  Evangeline,  kneeling  beside  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes;   but  it  suddenly   sank  into 

darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a  casement." 


Thus  ends  the  most  elaborated  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems, 
and  it  is  one,  perhaps,  on  which  he  most  prides  himself.  We 
do  not  set  the  high  estimate  on  it  which  many  of  his  admirers 
do,  but  we  think  we  have  quoted  enough  to  convince  the  reader 
that  it  is  full  of  poetical  thought  and  feeling.  We  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  author  has  missed  a  great  success  by  embody 
ing  this  conception  in  hexameters. 

The  next  production  on  which  Mr.  Longfellow  has  lavished 
his  greatest  care  is  the  play  entitled  "  The  Spanish  Student." 
As  a  dramatist  he  has  signally  failed.  He  lacks  nerve  and  con 
densation.  The  story  is  very  prettily  told  by  the  actors,  but 
beyond  the  dialogue  form  it  has  no  pretensions  to  be  called  a 
Drama.  You  are  informed,  but  not  roused.  The  progress  is 
pleasant,  the  speeches  are  elegant,  and  there  is  an  external  of 
velvet  thrown  over  the  form  which  is  fatal  to  its  interest,  indi 
viduality,  and  vigor.  The  actors  are  masks,  and  not  men.  It 
is  a  refined  conversation,  and  not  a  human  group  working  to 
an  intelligible  end,  moved  by  their  own  foibles  and  pursuits,  but 
determined  by  some  master  passion  in  the  superior  mind  of  the 
one  man,  round  whom  the  others  revolve,  by  the  force  of 
a  psychological  gravitation,  as  unerring  as  that  natural  law  by 


144         HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW. 

which  moons  spin  round  planets,  planets  round  suns,  and  suns 
in  due  degrees  round  the  eternal  centre.  Every  fine  play  is 
reducible  to  a  passion,  which  is  a  centre  or  circle  ;  for  different 
as  these  two  definitions  may  appear  at  first  glance  in  mathematics, 
yet  in  metaphysics  they  are  one  and  the  same  thing,  or  rather,  we 
ought  to  say,  one  includes  the  other.  They  are  indissolubly 
connected ;  the  centre  is  the  soul  of  the  circle,  and  the  circle  is 
the  body  of  the  centre. 

If  we  take  Othello,  we  shall  find  jealousy  the  controlling 
power ;  in  Hamlet,  indecision  ;  Macbeth,  superstition — not  am 
bition,  as  commonly  supposed,  for  this  is  developed  in  Richard 
the  Third;  in  Lear,  the  great  idea  is  not  ingratitude,  but 
a  prudential  reserve  of  rights  and  a  warning  against  dotage. 
This  is  the  test  of  a  great  dramatist.  The  soul  of  a  drama 
is  its  controlling  passion ;  its  body  is  the  plot ;  the  actors 
are  the  faculties ;  its  life  is  the  progress ;  and  the  catastrophe 
is  the  death.  Judged  by  this  rule,  we  need  scarcely  observe 
that  Longfellow  has  no  pretension  to  be  considered  a  dramatist. 

In  the  very  first  scene  there  is  an  incident  so  absurd  as 
almost  to  stamp  upon  the  very  first  page — this  is  no  play. 

The  scene  turns  upon  the  purity  of  a  danseuse,  one  Preciosa, 
the  heroine  of  a  play :  she  is  a  gipsy. 

"  LARA. 

"  Then  I  must  try  some  other  way  to  win  her ! 
Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

"  FRANCISCO. 

"  Yes,  my  Lord ; 
I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 


HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW.          145 

"  LARA. 

"  What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

"  FRANCISCO. 

"  I  saw  him  buy 
A  golden  ring,  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

"  LARA. 
"  Was  there  another  like  it  ? 

"  FRANCISCO. 

"One  so  like  it 
I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

"  LARA. 

"  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 
Do  not  forget.    Now  light  me  to  my  bed. 

[Exeunt" 

A  man  of  dramatic  genius  would  never  so  palpably  make 
a  giant  merely  to  kill  him,  nor  would  lie  invent  a  jeweller 
on  purpose  to  have  two  rings  exactly  alike.  There  is  too 
much  of  the  make-believe,  as  children  term  it,  to  throw  an 
air  of  nature  over  the  scene. 

In  the  second  scene  there  is  an  attempt  at  humor,  but 
of  a  very  dismal  kind.  Chispa  says,  among  other  witticisms, 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,"  (addressing  the  serenade™,)  "  pax  vobis- 
cum,  as  the  ass  said  to  the  cabbages." 


146    HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Now  look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the  life  of  crickets. 
You  enjoy  hunger  by  day,  and  noise  by  night  I" 

We  are  introduced  to  the  heroine  in  the  third  scene.  Were 
she  only  a  dancer,  or  singer,  or  actress,  we  might  possibly 
accept  her  opening  words  as  a  key-note  to  her  character ;  but 
she  is  meant  to  be  any  thing  but  either  of  those  characters,  and 
the  reader  will  judge  how  undramatic  are  the  introductory 
tokens  of  her  dramatic  existence.  They  are,  singularly  enough, 
a  complete  contradiction  to  her  character.  We  do  not  analyse 
this  play  thoroughly  on  its  own  account,  for  that  would  hardly 
be  fair,  seeing  that  Mr.  Longfellow  does  not  assume  to  be 
a  dramatist,  but  chiefly  to  develope  our  theory  of  a  drama. 

"  PRECIOSA. 

"  How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon  ;  like  thistle  down 
The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky : 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark  !  what  songs  of  love,  what  soul-like  sounds, 
Answer  them  from  below !" 

Then  follows  a  very  fine  scene  between  the  dancer  and  her 
lover  Victorian.  We  quote  part  of  the  lover's  speech. 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  What  I  most  prize  in  woman 
Is  her  affection,  not  her  intellect. 
The  intellect  is  finite,  but  the  affections 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          147 

Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 
Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth  : 
What  am  I  ?     Why,  a  pigmy  among  giants  ! 
But  if  thou  lovest  ? — Mark  me — I  say,  lovest ! 
The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 
The  world  of  affection  is  thy  world, 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition  !    In  that  stillness 
That  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and  holy, 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart 
Feeding  its  flame." 

In  the  fourth  scene,  Crispa,  the  comic  gentleman,  again 
appears,  but  with  the  exception  of  devouring  a  supper,  he 
does  nothing  very  laughable.  We  generally  notice  that  the 
finest  fun  at  Niblo's  comes  off  when  Francis  Eavel  is  eating 
his  own  or  somebody  else's  supper.  By  way  of  critical  objec 
tion,  we  may  say  that  the  drama  does  not  take  one  single  step 
forward  in  this  scene. 

In  the  next  scene  between  the  gipsy  girl's  lover  Victorian 
and  an  intimate,  we  have  very  pleasant  writing,  but  there 
is  no  action;  as  the  sailors  say,  "all  are  at  anchor."  Vic 
torian's  praise  of  Preciosa  is  well  said : 

"  The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born  I 
She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I'll  stoop  for  it ;  but  when  I  wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh  !" 

This  scene  is  full  to  overflowing  with  the  most  excellent 


148          IIENHY      WADSWORTII      LONGFELLOW. 

writing.  Wo  wish  the  author  of  "  Jacob  Lcisler  "  would  study 
tliis  drama  ;  we  feel  sure  he  would  learn  something  that  would 
vastly  improve  his  writings. 

rl'li ere  is  a  skill  in  the  grouping  of  the  following  thought 
which  almost  makes  it  seem  original,  although  it  is  merely  versi 
fied  from  a  thought  of  Carlyle : 

"  HYPOLITO. 

«  Hast  thou  e'er  reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now  ? 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  Yes ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life ! 
I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  deathbed, 
Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells  ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows  ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling ! 
What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together !" 

We  have  been  told  that  the  following  lines  are  not  original.  As 
we  were  not  informed  from  whom  they  were  taken,  we  shall  treat 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW.    149 

the  unknown  author  as  a  Mrs.  Harris,  and  shall  therefore  con 
sider  Mr.  Longfellow  as  their  lawful  owner. 

"  Hark  !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  time 
Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day." 

This  scene  closes  the  first  act.  With  the  exception  of  an 
introduction  to  some  of  the  actors  there  is  no  progress.  We 
do  not  certainly  expect  much  done  at  the  beginning  of  a  play, 
but  we  cannot  conceive  a  dramatist  writing  five  scenes,  and 
remaining  stationary  all  the  time.  The  second  act  commences 
with  a  scene  which,  like  the  whole  play,  is  well  written,  but  the 
introduction  of  the  Gipsy's  father  is  unartistic,  and  immediately 
following  the  bestowal  of  the  purse  to  another,  shows  too  fully  the 
artificial  nature  of  the  incident ;  but  the  succeeding  case  is  too 
gross  a  departure  from  the  truth  of  nature  to  be  tolerated  in  a 
drama.  As  a  satire  it  is  admissible,  but  the  probabilities  are  too 
grossly  violated  by  making  an  archbishop  and  a  cardinal,  out  of 
admiration  for  a  dancer,  join  in  the  Cachuca,  throw  up  their  caps 
in  the  air,  and  finish  the  scene  by  applauding  vehemently. 

We  may  remark  here,  by  the  way,  that,  with  scarcely  an 
exception,  this  play  is  entirely  composed  of  dialogues.  The 
seccndTact  closes  with  a  little  bustle  which  puzzles  the  audience 
— a  ;5ort  of  Comedy  of  Errors,  without  the  occasion. 

The  last  act  is  full  of  elegant  writing.     Victorian  says  : — 

"  Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle, 
Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  dull  warp ; 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers,  and  scenes  Arcadian, 

7  ' 


150          HENRY      WADSWORTII      LONGFELLOW. 

Hanging  our  gloomy  prison  house  about 
With  tapestries,  which  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never  ending  visions  of  delight." 

The  following  metaphor  is  well  conceived  and  finely  executed. 
Unable  to  forget  his  lady-love  the  Student  says  : 

"  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I  throw  into  oblivion's  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me :  for  like  Excalibar, 
With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it, 
And  waves  it  in  the  air,  and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore." 


We  think  the  repetition  of  the  word  and  is  a  slight  defect, 
but  every  lover  of  poetry  will  admire  it ;  it  has  been,  however, 
evidently  suggested  by  Tennyson's  fragment  entitled  "Morte 
d'Arthur." 

This  scene  has  only  one  fault,  that  it  is  perfectly  in  the  way 
of  the  action.  As  a  piece  of  poetical  writing  it  is  as  fine 
as  any  dramatic  scene  in  Barry  Cornwall.  Indeed,  like  the 
English  poet,  Mr.  Longfellow  lacks  the  nerve  and  sustained 
power  to  form,  a  play,  but  in  single  scenes  he  is  very  happy. 
There  are  a  propriety  and  polish  about  his  sentiments  which 
charm  the  fastidious  critic,  but  fail  in  rousing  the  attention 
of  the  many. 

As  a  specimen  of  elegant  composition  we  present  the  close 
of  the  scene  already  referred  to. 


HENRY      WADS  WORTH      LONGFELLOW.          151 

"  HYPOLITO. 
***** 

"  Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health, 
To  talk  of  dying. 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  Yet  I  fain  would  die  ! 
To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have ;  the  effort  to  be  strong ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not, — the  dead  alone ! 
Would  I  were  with  them ! 

"  HYPOLITO. 

"We  shall  all  be  soon. 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  It  cannot  be  too  soon ;  for  I  am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 
Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as  strangers ; 
Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and  beckons, 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A  mockery  and  a  jest ;  maddened,— confused, — 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 


152          HENRY      WADS  WORTH      LONGFELLOW 
"  HYPOLITO. 

"  Why  seek  to  know  ? 
Enjoy  the  merry  shrovetide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  eacli  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 


"  VICTORIAN. 

"  I  confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.    But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 
Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

"  HYPOLITO. 

"  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 
The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there  shines 
A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.     Trust  thy  star ! 

(Sound  of  a  village  bell  in  the  distance.) 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  Ave  Maria  !     I  hear  the  sacristan 
Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry ! 
A  solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 
And  bids  the  laboring  hind  afield,  the  shepherd 
Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          153 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin ! 

"  HYPOLITO. 

"  Amen !  amen !     Not  half  a  league  from  hence 
The  village  lies. 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 
Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  blue, 
And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 
Whistles  the  quail.     Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exeunt" 

Few  poets  excel  the  author  of  the  "  Spanish  Student " 
in  the  art  with  which  he  takes  a  well-known  thought,  either 
from  some  other  poet  or  one  common  as  the  air,  and  combining 
other  images  equally  hackneyed,  moulds  them  into  one  har 
monious  speech,  without  the  slightest  appearance  of  patch 
work. 

In  the  scene  between  Bartolome  and  Preciosa  there  is 
a  felicitous  instance  of  this  ingenious  dovetailing. 

"  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour ! 
Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me ; 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me. 
Yet  why  should  I  fear  death  ?  what  is  't  to  die  ? 
To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 


154    HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkindness, 

All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 

And  be  at  rest  for  ever !    O  dull  heart, 

Be  of  good  cheer !    When  thou  shalt  cease  to  beat, 

Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain  !" 

The  following  part  of  this  scene,  where  Victorian  and  Hypo- 
lito  meet  Preciosa,  is  like  reading  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
softened  into  the  woman  ! 

Hypolito's  speech  at  the  reconciliation  is  happily  stated. 

"  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love-scenes  in  the  best  romances, 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 
All  soft  adventures,  winch  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
Have  been  surpassed  here  by  my  friend,  the  student, 
And  this  sweet  Gipsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa !" 

The  character  of  Hypolito  is  well  sketched.  His  adieu  to 
the  Student's  wandering  life  is  admirably  done. 

"  So  farewell 

The  student's  wandering  life !     Sweet  serenades, 
Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 
And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 
To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth, 
The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 
And  leaves  the  Gipsy  with  the  Spanish  Student." 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW.    155 

There  is  a  fine  passage  in  the  last  scene. 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  This  is  the  highest  point :  here  let  us  rest. 
See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us, 
Kneeling  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 
Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun. 
O !  glorious  sight. 

"  PRECIOSA. 

"  Most  beautiful,  indeed. 

"  HYPOLITO. 
"  Most  wonderful ! 

"  VICTORIAN. 

"  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 
Sends  up  a  salutation  to  the  morn, 
As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields 
And  shouted  victory  1" 

A  friend  has  observed  that  this  has  been  suggested  by 
Wordsworth's  far-famed  passage  in  the  "Excursion."  We 
do  not  perceive  the  resemblance  in  form,  although  we  feel 
it  in  spirit.  With  regard  to  such  "stolen  thoughts,"  we 
are  inclined  to  say*  with  the  Emperor  (when  he  was 
told  Mozart  stole  his  best  melodies  from  the  old  masters) 


156          HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW. 

that  he  wished  the  gentlemen  who   complained  would   also 
steal  a  few  like  them. 

It  is  always  pleasant  to  compare  poets  with  each  other,  so  we 
make  no  apology  for  transcribing  the  following  lines  from 
"Wordsworth : 

"  What  soul  was  his,  when  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light  ?     He  looked ; 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 
In  gladness  and  deep  joy ;  the  clouds  were  touched, 
And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 
Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy ;  his  spirit  drank  ! 
The  spectacle ;  sensations,  soul  and  form 
All  melted  into  him ;  they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being ;  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  tones 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not,  in  enjoyment  it  expired ; 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request. 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  power 
That  made  him — it  was  blessedness  and  love." 

There  is  little  doubt  but  that  Longfellow  has  been  too  much 
disposed  to  think  how  other  poets  have  written,  and  would 
write,  rather  than  trust  to  his  own  impulses.  We  are,  conse- 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.  15*7 

quently,  ever  and  anon  reminded  of  passages  in  foreign  writers, 
which  materially  impair  our  faith  in  his  originality  of  mind. 
Nevertheless,  if  the  end  of  poetiy  is  to  afford   pleasure,  the 
author  of  Evangeline  is  sure  of  a  favorable  reception  from  the 
student  and  the  peasant.     Coming  fresh  from  the  perusal  of 
the  Spanish  Student,  we  feel  that  it  is  too  frail  a  fabric  to  bear 
the  test  of  a  mixed  audience,  but  for  a  company  of  young 
ladies  and  their  lovers  it  is  one  of  the  most  gracefully  adapted 
of  modern  pieces.     Every  word  is  elaborately  placed,  and  the 
melody,  of  the  rhythm   is  a  musical  accompaniment  of  itself. 
But  it  is  as  a  writer  of  occasional  verses  that  Longfellow  will 
be  popular  with  the  people.     We  question  if  any  but  a  few 
peculiar  admirers   will   ever   read   his  Evangeline  or  Spanish 
Student  a  second  time,  while  they  will  recur  over  and  over 
again  to  his  minor  poems.     They  will  not  pause  to  inquire  with 
the   critic   whether   this   beautiful   thought   is  taken  from  an 
English  poet,  or  translated  literally  from  the   German.     They 
read  not  to  criticise,  but  to  admire — not  to  think,  but  to  feel. 
They  wish  to  receive  pleasure,  not  to  explain  it  away.     This 
system  of   objection  may  be  carried  to  any  extent.     A  cele 
brated  divine,  who  prided  himself  upon  his  originality,  and  who 
would  reject  his  best  thought  if  he  thought  it  was  traceable  to 
any  previous  author,  was  startled  one  day  by  a  friend  coolly 
telling  him  that  his  favorite  discourse  was  stolen  every  word 
from  a  book  he  had  at  home.     The  astonished  writer,  staggered 
by  his  friend's  earnestness,  begged  for  a  sight  of  this  volume. 
He,  however,  was  released  from  his  misery  by  the  other  smil 
ingly  announcing  the  work  in  question  to  be  Johnson's  Dictionary, 

7* 


158          HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW. 

where,  continued  his  tormentor,  I  undertake  to  find  every  word 
of  your  discourse. 

The  different  views  which  men  may  take  of  the  same  subject, 
even  under  the  same  aspect,  are  well  illustrated  in  a  story  we 
heard  some  years  ago.  It  is  given  to  the  reign  of  James  the 
First,  of  England.  This  monarch,  as  is  well  known,  was 
famous  for  his  admiration  of  all  the  frivolities  of  literature. 
He  was  delighted  one  day  to  hear' that  a  man  had  arrived  from 
Paris  who  could  talk  by  signs,  and  understand  any  one  else 
who  possessed  that  accomplishment.  In  order  to  test  his 
veracity,  the  curious  king  empowered  one  of  his  courtiers  to  find 
another  man  who  was  similarly  endowed.  Determined  to  have 
some  sport,  he  consulted  a  shrewd  fellow  of  his  household,  who 
said  that  he  knew  one,  a  raw  Scotchman,  who  would  be  the 
very  man  for  the  purpose. 

On  the  day  in  question  these  rival  masters  of  the  silent 
language  of  signs  were  brought  before  the  pedantic  monarch, 
who  was  on  his  throne  siirrounded  by  his  court.  The  two  pro 
fessors  sat  on  a  platform  where  all  eyes  were  placed  on  them. 

The  foreign  professor  began  first.  He  held  up  one  finger — 
the  Scotchman  looked  steadily  and  held  up  two  ;  the  reply  of 
his  antagonist  was  holding  up  three  ;  the  other  then  closed  his 
hand,  and  held  it  up  deliberately  in  the  other's  face.  Hereupon 
the  foreign  professor  declared  aloud  that  he  was  vanquished,  for 
the  other  was  a  greater  master  than  himself,  as  he  perfectly 
understood  a  system  which  he  thought  was  known  only  to 
himself. 

The  monarch,  anxious  to  convince  himself  there  was  no  collu 
sion  between  the  two  professors,  resolved  to  examine  them 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          159 

apart.  Left  alone  with  the  foreigner,  his  account  was  this.  I 
held  up  one  finger  to  say  there  was  but  one  God — the  Father  ; 
your  professor  held  up  two  fingers,  to  signify  that  there  was 
another,  the  Father  and  the  Son.  I  then  held  up  three,  to  sig 
nify  there  were  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost.  Upon  this  my 
opponent  closed  his  hand,  to  certify  that  those  Three  -are  One. 
The  monarch  was  charmed  ;  the  explanation  was  entirely  con 
firmed  by  the  facts ;  he  was  present  and  saw  all. 

Still,  to  render  assurance  doubly  sure,  he  resolved  to  question 
the  other.  His  explanation,  which  was  in  broad  Scotch,  was 
this  :  "  Please  your  majesty,  when  I  saw  the  fool  hold  up  one 
finger  I  held  up  two,  to  show  I  could  beat  him  there.  When 
the  dog  held  up  three  to  mock  me,  I  got  angry,  and  doubled  my 
fist,  signifying  I  could  knock  him  down  if  I  had  any  more  of 
that  nonsense."  The  critical  king  was  perfectly  satisfied  that 
two  persons  may  very  differently  explain  the  same  thing. 

We  hope  our  readers  will  pardon  this  story,  but  we  think  the 
critics  may  receive  it  with  some  profit. 

Among  the  occasional  pieces  of  Mr.  Longfellow  are  his  lines 
to  the  Village  Blacksmith.  There  is  a  vigor  of  portraiture 
about  them  which  is  not  very  often  the  characteristic  of  our 
poet's  muse.  He  is  seldom  so  graphic  as  this  : 

"Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hand, 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


160          HENRY     WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW 

"His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan, 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


"And  the  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor." 

To  this  fine  poem  the  author  very  unnecessarily  appends  the 
moral  in  the  old  way  of  .JEsop's  Fables : 

"  Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought, 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought." 

There  is  a  great  sympathy  with  nature  in  most  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  writings,  but  it  is  not  of  that  fresh,  dewy  kind  which 
shows  nature.  There  is  too  much  of  being  persuaded  into  the 
loveliness  of  outward  things  by  an  effort  of  the  mind,  and  not 
of  the  heart ;  there  is  more  of  the  scholar  than  the  lover  in  his 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          161 

admiration.     He  is  too  fastidious  to  be  natural.    His  hymns  to 
his  Goddess  breathe  too  strongly  of  the  lamp. 

"  Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long  drooping  houghs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 

Alternately  come  and  go. 

"  Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 

But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 

In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 

Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

"Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound. 

"A  slumberous  sound — a  sound  that  brings 

The  feeling  of  a  dream, 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings, 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream." 

All  this,  though  reminding  us  strongly  of  Coleridge,  both  in 


162          HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW. 

thought  and  expression,  is  a  very  favorable  specimen  of  that 
elegant  sympathy  with  nature  which  is  so  distinguishing 
a  feature  in  our  author's  poetry.  It  lacks  that  freshness  which 
has  made  Wordsworth  so  great  a  writer.  Listen  for  a  moment 
to  the  great  High  Priest  of  the  open  air  : 

"  In  vain  through  water,  earth,  and  air, 
The  soul  of  happy  sound  was  spread, 
When  Peter  on  some  April  morn, 
Beneath  the  broom  or  budding  thorn, 
Made  the  warm  earth  his  lazy  bed. 

"At  noon,  when  by  the  forest's  edge 
He  lay  beneath  the  branches  high, 
The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart;  he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky. 

*        *        *        *        % 
"A  savage  wildness  round  him  hung, 
As  of  a  dweller  out  of  doors, 
In  his  whole  figure  and  his  mien 
A  savage  character  was  seen, 
Of  mountains  and  of  dreary  moors." 

Peter  Bell 

We  should,  however,  be  doing  Mr.  Longfellow  injustice  were 
we  to  confine  our  extracts  to  his  descriptions  of  nature.  He  is 
a  firm  believer  in  the  better  part  of  human  kind.  In  his 
Psalm  of  Life  he  has  declared  this  faith. 

"  Life  is  real—life  is  earnest ! 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ! 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          163 

Dust  thou  art — to  dust  returnest— 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul ! 

"  Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way : 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  further  than  to-day." 

The  following  verse  contains  a  beautiful  image : 

"  Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still  like  muffled-drums  are  beating 

Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

%        *        *        *        * 

"  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ! 

"  Footprints !  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  Life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing  shall  take  heart  again !" 

This  "psalm"  is  eminently  poetical,  and  has  doubtless 
in  the  future  much  fine  effect  locked  up  in  it.  The  acorn 
holds  the  oak,  and  tbe  oak  in  time  floats  a  palace  o'er  the 
ocean.  How  often  has  the  unregarded  pbrase  of  one  time 
been  tbe  inspirer  to  the  glorious  deed  of  another!  We 
remember  one  instance,  in  which  a  father  named  his  child 


164         HENRY     WADS  WORTH     LONGFELLOW. 

after  a  celebrated  man,  in  the  express  hope  that  should  he 
at  any  time  feel  sinking  to  the  degradation  of  a  mean 
action,  the  sound  of  his  name  might  recall  him  to  the  path 
of  honor ! 

There  are,  notwithstanding,  many  happy  instances  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  talent  for  applying  a  fact  to  a  feeling,  and  of 
illustrating  the  processes  of  duty  by  metaphors  drawn  from 
outside  life.  This  very  facility  is  sometimes  fatal  :  it  very 
often  becomes  common -place,  so  that  we  feel  inclined  now 
and  then  to  resent  a  truism  as  though  it  were  a  falsehood; 
at  all  events,  to  treat  it  as  an  impertinence  or  an  intrusion. 
This  strikes  us  as  the  prevailing  defect  in  many  otherwise 
very  fine  poems.  We  may  instance  as  a  proof  of  this,  some 
otherwise  very  fine  lines  which  are  spoiled  by  this  obtrusive 
subjectiveness. 

"  There  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death, 

And  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 
And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

*  *  *  * 

"  He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves, 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise1 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

*  *  *  * 

"Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  reaper  came  that  day, 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away." 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          165 

This  sounds  more  like  Watts's  hymns  than  a  philosophical 
reflection  modified  by  the  spirit  of  poetry,  the  highest  expres 
sion  of  philosophy.  Although  somewhat  out  of  keeping, 
we  cannot  help  here  quoting  a  ludicrous  explanation  which 
Leigh  Hunt  once  gave  of  the  difference  between  philosophy 
and  poetry.  He  said  it  was  the  difference  between  mutton 
and  venison :  and  apostrophized  "  venison  as  the  poetry  of 
mutton !" 

In  the  commencement  of  the  "  Hymn  to  the  Night "  there 
is  an  instance  of  bad  taste  in  the  selection  of  metaphors, 
which  rarely  happens  to  our  author. 

"  I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls ; 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls." 

He  redeems  this  artificial  imagery  by  the  following  verse  : 

"  I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm  majestic  presence  of  the  night, 
As  of  the  one  I  love ! 

*          *          * 
"  O,  holy  night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  done  before ; 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  care, 
And  they  complain  no  more !" 

We  must,  however,  warn  Mr.  Longfellow  against  the  indis- 


166 


HENRY     WADS  WORT  II      LONGFELLOW. 


criminate  use  of  "stars"  and  celestial  machinery:  it  shows 
either  a  poverty  of  illustration,  or  an  indolence  in  searching 
after  new  combinations. 

In  the  following  he  copies  some  of  the  puerilities  of  Words 
worth's  earlier  poems.  It  should,  however,  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  English  reformer  of  verse  had  an  object  in  view 
when  he  thus  violently  rushed  into  the  opposite  extreme, 
which  Longfellow  has  not.  When  Wordsworth  wrote,  the 
Rosa-Matildaish  style  was  predominant.  The  moon,  stars, 
and  other  natural  objects  were  banished  from  decent  poetry, 
and  "  lima,"  "  stella,"  "  lamps  of  light,"  "  Apollo,"  &c.,  were 
invoked  by  the  whole  regiment.  The  palate  then  was  so 
diseased  that  a  violent  remedy  was  required. 

"  The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon, 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky." 

In  the  "  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,"  our  American 
poet  has  forgotten  how  completely  Alfred  Tennyson  had  anti 
cipated  him. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  the  poem  entitled,  "Woods 
in  Winter :"  it  is  too  much  like  Southey's  poem  "  On  Winter." 
Mr.  Longfellow  has  only  to  be  warned  of  these  coincidences, 
for  we  are  sure  he  has  too  much  poetical  wealth  of  his 
own  to  render  borrowing  from  another  necessary. 

The  great  fault  of  many  of  the  poems  before  us  is  their 
elegant  diffusiveness :  they  would  have  been  twice  as  good 


HENRY      WADSWORTH      LONGFELLOW.          167 

had   they  been  only  half  as  long.     There  is,  however,  a  want 
of  condensation  in  most  of  his  productions. 

As  a  proof  of  success  in  the  difficult  department  of  sonnet 
writing,  we  shall  quote  one  on 

"  DANTE. 

"  Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 
Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ! 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
By  Fra  Hilario,  in  his  diocese, 
As  up  the  convent  walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease. 
And  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  *  Peace  /'  " 

Our  limits  will  not  allow  us  to  bestow  any  space  upon 
"  Kavanagh."  Although  in  prose,  there  is  too  much  poetry 
in  Longfellow's  mind  to  take  him  into  the  lower  region  of 
art,  without  a  constant  return  to  the  loftier  realms.  Its  popu 
larity  renders  quotation  needless.  We  shall,  therefore,  content 
ourselves  by  stating  that  it  displays  powers  of  observation 
and  skill  in  writing  of  the  peculiarities  of  New  England 
life,  we  did  not  give  our  author  credit  for. 

We  conclude  this  attempt  to  examine  the  works  of  a  popular 


168    HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

poet  by  the  opinion  that  his  great  want  is  self-reliance.  He 
is  too  apt  to  consult  poetical  precedents,  instead  of  boldly 
chalking  out  a  path  for  himself.  His  very  studies  have  been 
against  him.  When  a  poet  trusts  to  another  for  his  thoughts 
he  will  soon  lose  his  individuality.  We  do  not  say  this  has 
actually  happened  to  Mr.  Longfellow,  but  we  see  many  evi 
dences  of  a  tendency  to  indulge  in  that  fatal  habit,  which 
we  think  in  his  case  springs  more  from  indolence  than  want 
of  power.  Let  him  resolutely  think  and  write  for  himself, 
retaining  his  force,  elegance,  and  purity  of  diction,  but  throwing 
from  him  his  undue  elaboration  and  diffusiveness  of  execution  : 
let  him  care  less  for  what  others  have  written,  and  more  of 
what  he  ought  and  can  write,  and  boldly  throwing  away  his 
artificial  supports,  soar  unaided  into  an  element  of  his  own : 
let  him  scorn  another's  balloon,  and  boldly  take  to  his  own 
wings,  and  then  America  will  have  reason  to  consider  as  one 
of  her  best  poets  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  169 


WILLIAM   H.    PRESCOTT. 


MR.  PRESCOTT  seems  to  us  to  combine  many  of  the  qualities 
requisite  to  make  a  popular  historian.  Less  philosophical 
than  Hume,  he  is  more  graphic  and  interesting ;  and  the 
charm  of  his  narrative  so  far  exceeds  the  cold  and  dispassionate 
style  of  Hallam,  as  to  give  him  a  decided  advantage  over 
that  classical  and  condensed  historian.  We  must  not,  how 
ever,  forget  that  the  subjects  treated  of  by  Mr.  Prescott  are 
his  own  selection,  and  the  most  attractive  on  record.  The 
unbaring  to  the  eyes  of  the  old  world  the  other  half  so 
long  buried  in  the  western  waters,  is  undoubtedly  the  greatest 
marvel  in  the  history  of  the  world.  It  is  almost  tantamount 
to  some  adventurous  spirit  reaching  the  moon  and  leading 
his  companions  to  explore  its  mysterious  recesses.  It  may 
be  doubted  if  curiosity  is  not  the  controlling  passion  of  the 
large  majority  of  human  kind,  and  mystery  is  the  greatest 
provocative  to  its  exercise  existing.  The  discovery  of  America 
roused  the  known  world  into  an  activity  unparalleled  in  his 
tory.  Had  a  new  planet  suddenly  swung  alongside  our  earth, 
and  courted  millions  by  the  easiest  of  conveyances  to  land 
and  trace  its  wonders,  not  more  astonishment  could  have 


170  WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT. 

been  manifested.  It  was  the  absorbing  topic,  and  even  now 
the  desire  to  be  mentally  present  at  that  time  exists  in 
full  force.  Every  one  seems  anxious  to  accompany  the  daring 
few  who  unsealed  the  wonders  of  the  new  world,  and  we 
venture  to  say  never  has  the  true  nature  of  a  historian  for 
those  exciting  times  been  better  developed  than  in  the  author 
now  under  notice. 

Every  passage  is  based  on  a  fact,  while  it  reads  as  a 
romance.  There  is  the  dignity  of  truth  and  the  chivalric 
exciting  spirit  of  adventure  harmoniously  blended.  Nor  is 
he  less  successful  in  tracing  with  the  eye  of  a  shrewd  observer 
the  progress  of  those  changes  which  in  time  affect  the 
stability  of  states.  Every  nation,  like  every  individual,  has 
its  birth,  manhood,  and  death ;  but  just  as  a  nation  exceeds 
a  man  in  amount,  so  do  its  processes  work  with  a  propor 
tionable  slowness.  There  is  nothing  in  one  generation  to  show 
how  far  the  shadow  of  decay  has  crept  over  the  vast  com 
plexity  of  interests  which  constitutes  a  nation.  We  see  not 
in  a  single  year  the  stealing  change  in  a  human  being,  but 
a  decade  is  unmistakable.  In  like  manner  the  journalist  lives 
and  dies,  and  has  no  tangible  mark  to  show  how  far  the  day 
has  advanced  in  the  life  of  his  own  country,  or  in  those  around 
him ;  but  the  historian,  looking  back  from  the  eminence  of 
Time,  beholds  the  ascent  and  the  decline.  But  it  not  alone 
requires  the  philosophical  eye  to  see  this,  but  it  also  requires 
other  qualities  to  make  this  apparent  to  others.  If  the  writer 
trfeats  this  in  a  dry,  technical  manner,  the  lesson  is  lost  to  the 
world;  it  only  exists  as  a  book  of  reference  to  the  scholar 
or  the  antiquary;  it  buries  itself  in  its  own  dust,  and  rots 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  171 

in  the  sepulchre  of  its  own  research.  But  when  a  man  comes 
who  has  the  power,  he  bids  the  dead  Lazarus  of  a  life  of 
labor  come  forth  and  talk  to  the  masses  of  mankind. 

A  first-rate  historian  requires  powers  seldom  found  in  one 
man.     A  deficiency  of  any  of  these  qualities  is  more  apparent 
and   deteriorates  the  whole,  more   than   the  absence  of  any 
single  faculty  in  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  or  the  novelist.     A 
poet   may  be  of  first-rate   excellence   without   the   possession 
of  a  philosophical  mind :  he  may  be  unapproached  as  a  lyrical 
writer.     The  philosopher   may  be   great,   and  yet  altogether 
destitute  of  poetical  imagination.     The  metaphysician  may  be 
a  pioneer  into  a   new  world  of  thought,  and  yet  be  devoid 
of  imagination  or  command  of  language.     It  is  only  a  great 
dramatist,  like   Shakspeare   or   Schiller,  who  enjoys   so  large 
a   combination   of  opposite   qualities.      In   like   manner,   the 
great  historian    is  in  the  world   of  fact  what   the   dramatist 
is  in  the  world  of  fiction.     He  requires  a  philosophical  mind  ; 
a  keen  insight  into  human  nature ;  a  patient  investigation  of 
conflicting   testimonies ;    a   power   of  judging   from   the  con 
text,  and  in  seizing  upon  the  most  probable  fact,  out  of  the 
very  instinct  which  always  accompanies  a  large  and  accurate 
knowledge  of  human  nature  ;  and  above  all,  he  must  possess 
the   Promethean   spark  of  imagination   to   put   all   this  into 
coherent   life   and  motion,  when  he   has   gathered   the   dead 
materials  of  the  past.     He  must  satisfactorily  answer  the  ques 
tion,  "  Can  these  dry  bones  live  ?" 

A  great  merit  in  Mr.  Prescott  is  the  total  absence  he 
displays  of  all  onesidedness.  He  is  less  subjective  than  any 
prominent  historian  we  are  acquainted  with.  This  is  a  rare 


172  WILLIAM     H.      PRESCOTT. 

virtue.  A  glance  at  the  most  celebrated  authors  will  prove 
this.  While  Lingard's  statements  must  be  received  with  cau 
tion  whenever  his  Romanist  prejudices  come  into  play,  Gib 
bon  is  not  to  be  trusted  on  account  of  his  hatred  of  Chris 
tianity.  Hume,  without  any  dislike  to  Christianity  in  par 
ticular,  has  a  strong  tendency  to  infidelity  in  general.  These 
objections  apply  only  to  religious  opinions ;  but  when  we  come 
to  a  political  bias  the  disturbing  influences  are  enormous. 
Who  can  trust  Robertson,  where  the  evidence  conflicts,  on  the 
Queen  of  Scotland  ? — and  few  can  receive  the  special-pleading 
of  Hume,  as  conclusive,  on  the  civil  war  in  England.  Even 
Macintosh  and  Macaulay  are  swayed  by  these  elements,  and 
it  is,  perhaps,  difficult  to  find  any  entirely  free  from  them. 
Now  we  claim  for  Mr.  Prescott  a  great  exemption  from  this 
evil ;  he  is  decidedly  an  objective  writer ;  there  is  the  elo 
quence  of  the  pleader,  and  the  impartiality  of  the  judge  ;  and 
we  feel,  as  we  proceed  in  his  details,  that  we  can  place  con 
fidence  in  his  verdicts. 

Another  distinguishing  trait  is  in  his  endeavor  to  throw 
his  readers  back  into  the  times  he  is  treating  on.  He  is  not 
content  with  considering  the  past  as  the  past,  but  he  endeavors 
to  carry  us  back  to  the  time  itself.  Many,  consequently, 
consider  the  commencement  of  his  histories  tedious,  but  we 
feel  glad  afterwards  that  we  have  listened  to  the  exordium. 
Coleridge  was  in  the  habit  of  observing  that  it  is  said,  any 
fool  can  ask  a  question,  but  it  takes  a  wise  man  to  answer  it ; 
his  version  was,  it  also  took  a  wise  man  to  put  the  question 
aright.  We  have,  therefore,  often  heard  common-place  men  accuse 
Coleridge  of  never  giving  a  direct  answer.  When  this  was  named 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  173 

to  him  one  day,  by  a  "yes  and  no"  man,  the  great  logician 
smiled  at  the  ignorance  and  folly  of  the  objector ;  and  began 
forthwith  to  explain  to  the  bewildered  blockhead  that  it  re 
quired  also  a  wise  man  to  put  a  question  in  a  proper  shape. 
There  is  scarcely  an  inquiry  in  the  world,  either  metaphysical, 
circumstantial,  or  personal,  that  is  capable  of  being  directly 
answered.  It  requires  a  thorough  investigation  of  all  points 
connected  with  the  subject  to  be  able  to  master  what  the 
interrogator  wants. 

This  applies  in  an  eminent  manner  to  history.  It  is  not 
enough  to  narrate  the  actions  just  as  they  happened,  or  to 
report  the  speeches  just  as  they  were  said.  It  is  indispensably 
necessary  that  the  starting-ground  should  be  thoroughly  recon 
noitred.  Without  this  we  answer,  just  as  men  walk  in  the 
dark  over  a  field  they  are  ignorant  of;  they  may  put  their 
foot  on  firm  ground,  or  fall  headlong  down  some  yawning 
chasm.  It  is  absolutely  requisite  that  some  insight  should 
be  had  into  the  history,  pursuits,  and  designs  of  the  actors, 
and  some  personal  knowledge  of  the  man.  Then  we  are 
better  able  to  judge  how  far  the  historian  puts  true  motives 
for  this  or  that  equivocal  act.  Many  deeds,  now  apparently 
obscure  or  startling,  are  perfectly  intelligible  when  judged 
in  context  with  others  ;  but  taken  singly  and  alone  they  are 
enough  to  damn  a  man's  reputation  and  contradict  his  whole 
career.  We  need  only  glance  at  this  ;  to  insist  upon  it  would 
be  a  waste  of  time.  We  leave  every  reader  to  fill  up  the 
sketch  out  of  his  own  experience. 

Now  it  occurs  to  us  that  the  author  before  us  feels  this  neces 
sity  in  all  its  force,  and  that  he  does  his  best  to  remedy  the 

8 


J74  WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT. 

defect.  Not  content  with  starting  at  the  beginning  of  the  drama, 
he  very  properly  gives  us  a  history  of  the  characters  before  the 
commencement,  so  that  we  are  prepared,  as  the  pageant  of  fate 
moves  on,  to  recognise  the  {esthetic  truth  of  each  man's  life.  Nor 
does  this  destroy  the  interest  of  the  denouement ;  it  greatly 
adds  to  it.  A  personal  knowledge  of  any  one  always  enhances 
the  interest  we  feel  in  his  fortunes,  and  it  is  half  the  task  of  a 
writer  to  enlist  the  attention  of  his  readers.  This  is  a  hard 
labor  to  accomplish,  but  it  ought  to  be  done,  otherwise  the 
relator  of  the  event  is  a  narrator,  and  not  a  historian.  Another 
besetting  sin  with  this  class  of  writers  is  their  liability  to  over 
estimate  the  importance  of  some  particular  event.  How  easy 
is  it  to  exaggerate  this  fact  and  diminish  that  ?  An  undue  promi 
nence  is  thus  given  to  a  secondary  idea,  and  so  far  history  is 
falsified.  The  historian  lies  as  much  by  the  concealment  of  a 
fact,  or  even  of  an  extenuating  motive,  as  though  he  boldly 
stated  the  reverse  of  the  case. 

Properly  treated,  history  should  be  a  plain,  ungarbled  account 
of  events  as  they  really  happened,  accompanied  with  as  much 
light  as  can  be  thrown  upon  the  public  stage  by  the  private 
biographies  of  the  actors  themselves.  In  addition  to  this  we 
should  have  the  abuses  of  the  time,  and  the  irritative  causes 
conspiring  to  rouse  the  masses  calmly  placed  before  us,  so  that 
a  reason  should  be  given  for  every  result.  To  complete  all,  a 
careful  summary  should  be  drawn  up,  to  show  the  amount  of 
human  advancement  in  the  progress  of  this  great  spectacle, 
where  nations  are  actors,  empires  scenes,  crowns  baubles,  and 
revolutions  the  denouement. 

This  is  the  cause  why  romance  is  devoured  in  preference  to 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  175 

history.  We  are  chilled  into  apathy  by  the  generalization  of 
the  latter,  while  the  personal  specialties  of  the  former  are 
enchaining  to  old  and  young.  Yet  a  moment's  reflection  is 
sufficient  to  convince  all  that  the  excitement  of  the  one  is  far 
superior  to  the  other.  What  can  exceed  the  magnificence 
of  a  drama  when  kings  are  actors  ?  And  yet  so  badly 
managed  is  history  generally  that  every  lesson  is  received  with 
lassitude. 

When  Mr.  Prescott  has  prepared  the  argument  of  his  works 
he  becomes  graphic.  Till  then  there  may  appear  too  great  an 
anxiety  for  every  one  to  know  everything.  This  is,  however,  a 
fault  on  the  right  side. 

While  he  has  a  proper  horror  of  tyranny,  we  observe  a 
charity  extending  even  to  the  perpetrator  of  the  outrage ; 
action  and  reaction  follow  each  other  in  natural  steps.  The 
French  Revolution,  dreadful  as  were  its  excesses,  was  created  by 
the  enormities  of  the  ancient  regime ;  centuries  of  wrong-doing 
were  heaped  into  one  measure,  and  poured  out  at  once  on  the 
devoted  heads  of  the  offending  class.  The  narrator  who  regards 
the  vengeance  as  distinct  from  the  provocation,  only  sees  one 
half  the  question,  and  his  opinion  is  worthless.  The  true 
philosopher  is  sensible  they  are  inseparable,  and  would  be  more 
astonished  at  the  absence  of  the  catastrophe  than  that  it 
occurred. 

Mr.  Prescott's  first  work  was  the  result  of  a  labor  of  many 
years,  and  was  called  "  The  History  of  the  Reign  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella."  It  displays  many  faults  which  a  young  writer 
would  naturally  fall  into — an  ostentatious  display  at  word 
painting,  and  an  attempt  at  fine  writing.  This  censure,  however, 


176  WILLIAM     H.      PRESCOTT. 

only  applies  to  the  earlier  chapters,  which  display  a  cumbrous 
diction  not  at  all  native  to  his  style.  As  the  work  proceeds  the 
author  has  gained  his  native  element,  and  is  thoroughly  master 
of  his  vocation. 

Mr.  Prescott  has  divided  his  history  of  Ferdinand  arid 
Isabella  into  two  parts,  prefaced  with  an  introduction,  which  par 
takes  of  his  usual  painstaking.  The  description  of  the  Castilian 
monarchy,  with  its  manners,  customs,  &c.,  is  as  complete  as  it 
is  possible  to  make  it.  The  reader  feels  at  once  among  the 
nation  described,  and  becomes  imbued  with  many  of  the  feelings 
of  that  momentous  time. 

The  second  part  opens  with  a  luminous  review  of  the  condition 
of  Europe,  and  the  bearing  which  the  different  states  had  upon 
the  most  important  monarchy  then  existing.  This  is  stated 
with  admirable  impartiality,  and  impresses  every  one  that  the 
writer  was  thoroughly  master  of  his  subject.  Some  of  the 
characters  in  this  work  are  sketched  with  great  force  and  pre 
cision.  We  would  especially  notice  Ferdinand  and  his  noble 
wife.  Columbus  is  done  con  amore,  and  stands  out  in  bold 
relief,  as  he  should  do,  the  greatest  of  his  time.  Ximenes  is 
likewise  well  drawn.  Rising  from  the  perusal  of  this  work  it 
seems  as  though  we  had  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the  chief 
actors  in  this  eventful  drama.  The  sagacity  of  Ferdinand 
seems  as  characteristic  of  him,  as  the  fine  womanly,  heroism  and 
nobility  of  soul  are  of  his  glorious  wife.  Six  years  after  the  pub 
lication  of  this  work  appeared  his  History  of  the  Conquest  of 
Mexico.  For  this  he  possessed  advantages  seldom  vouchsafed 
to  any  author.  The  Spanish  Government  placed  at  his  disposal 
unpublished  correspondence,  chronicles,  legal  documents,  &c., 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  1 

sufficient  to  set  up  a  dozen  historians.  From  Mexico  lie  also 
received  most  important  and  valuable  assistance.  Nor  were 
these  unusual  advantages  thrown  away.  As  an  English  reviewer 
has  observed,  many  of  the  characters  are  so  well  and  vividly 
described  that  we  may  almost  be  permitted  to  call  Mr.  Prescott 
the  Homer  of  history.  We  cannot,  ourselves,  go  to  this  extent, 
but  we  frankly  acknowledge  that  of  all  historical  writers  he 
possesses  more  of  the  epic  romancist  than  any  narrative  writer 
of  the  day. 

We  have  heard  some  of  his  most  extravagant  admirers  con 
tend  that  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  is  a  magnificent  poem.  This 
is  absurdity ;  we  can,  however,  truly  predicate  that  it  possesses 
many  of  the  chief  ingredients.  Till  Mr.  Prescott  published  his 
voluminous  histories  there  wras  much  vagueness  in  the  knowledge 
possessed  by  the  masses  on  the  subjects  of  which  he  has  treated ; 
he  seems  suddenly  to  have  illuminated  the  general  world, 
and  to  have  created  a  knowledge  where  before  there  was  a 
darkness.  This  is  seldom  achieved  without  the  possession  of 
that  peculiar  power  termed  genius,  and  we  consider  ourselves 
within  the  bounds  of  demonstration  when  we  say  that  in  these 
respects  we  consider  Mr.  Prescott  as  deserving  the  rare  dis 
tinction  of  having  a  genius  for  historical  composition. 

We  should  like  to  present  to  the  reader  the  passages  we 
have  alluded  to,  but  our  space  will  not  permit  us.  We  cannot, 
however,  avoid  quoting  the  closing  pages  of  the  "  Conquest  of 
Mexico."  Here  we  have  a  passage  full  of  Mr.  Prescott's  merits 
and  blemishes.  His  partiality  to  Cortes  is  excessive  ;  this  is, 
however,  on  the  right  side ;  when  it  is  known,  we  can  guard 
against  the  bias.  We  can  easily  pardon  an  author's  partiality 


178  WILLIAM      H.      PRBSCOTT. 

for  a  subject,  more  especially  a  biographer  for  his  hero.  All 
we  require  is  a  calm  statement  of  facts,  nothing  extenuate, 
or  aught  set  down  in  malice.  We  are  then  in  a  position  to 
counteract  the  warmth  of  coloring  of  the  poet,  or  the  undue 
partiality  of  the  advocate. 

The  character  of  Cortes  has  either  been  the  subject  of  out 
rageous  abuse,  or  else  of  fulsome  adulation.  Mr.  Prescott, 
after  a  careful  balancing  of  the  conflicting  evidence,  sums  up 
candidly  : — 

"  He  was  a  knight-errant,  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word.  Of 
all  the  band  of  adventurous  cavaliers,  whom  Spain,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  sent  forth  on  the  career  of  discovery  and  conquest,  there 
was  none  more  deeply  filled  with  the  spirit  of  romantic  enterprise 
than  Hernando  Cortes.  Dangers  and  difficulties,  instead  of  deter 
ring,  seemed  to  have  a  charm  in  his  eyes.  They  were  necessary 
to  rouse  him  to  a  full  consciousness  of  his  powers.  He  grappled 
with  them  at  the  outset,  and,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  seemed  to 
prefer  to  take  his  enterprises  by  the  most  difficult  side.  He  con 
ceived,  at  the  first  moment  of  his  landing  in  Mexico,  the  design  of 
its  conquest.  When  he  saw  the  strength  of  its  civilization,  he  was 
not  turned  from  his  purpose.  When  he  was  assailed  by  the  supe 
rior  force  of  Narvaez,  he  still  persisted  in  it ;  and,  when  he  was 
driven  in  ruin  from  the  capital,  he  still  cherished  his  original  idea. 
How  successfully  he  carried  it  into  execution  we  have  seen."  .... 

This  is  no  doubt  true  of  every  great  mind.  It  is  this  pecu 
liarity  which  distinguishes  the  hero  from  the  charlatan  ;  the 
man  who  is  reasoned,  bullied,  or  laughed  out  of  an  opinion, 


WILLIAM      II.      PRESCOTT.  179 

once  deliberately  stated  to  the  world,  is  only  fit  to  be  a  slave, 
and  not  a  master. 

Prescott  thus  proceeds : 

"  This  spirit  of  knight-errantry  might  lead  us  to  undervalue  his 
talents  as  a  general,  and  to  regard  him  merely  in  the  light  of  a 
lucky  adventurer.  But  this  would  be  doing  him  injustice;  for 
Cortes  was  certainly  a  great  general,  if  that  man  be  one,  who  per 
forms  great  achievements  with  the  resources  which  his  own  genius 
has  created.  There  is  probably  no  instance  in  history,  where  so 
vast  an  enterprise  has  been  achieved  by  means  apparently  so  inade 
quate.  He  may  be  truly  said  to  have  effected  the  Conquest  by  his 
own  resources.  If  he  was  indebted  for  his  success  to  the  co-opera 
tion  of  the  Indian  tribes,  it  was  the  force  of  his  genius  that 
obtained  command  of  such  materials.  He  arrested  the  arm  that 
was  lifted  to  smite  him,  and  made  it  do  battle  in  his  behalf.  He 
beat  the  Tlascalans,  and  made  them  his  stanch  allies.  He  beat 
the  soldiers  of  Narvaez,  and  doubled  his  effective  force  by  it. 
When  his  own  men  deserted  him,  he  did  not  desert  himself.  He 
drew  them  back  by  degrees,  and  compelled  them  to  act  by  his 
will,  till  they  were  all  as  one  man.  He  brought  together  the  most 
miscellaneous  collection  of  mercenaries  who  ever  fought  under 
one  standard;  adventurers  from  Cuba  and  the  Isles,  craving  for 
gold;  hidalgos,  who  came  from  the  old  country  to  win  laurels; 
broken-clown  cavaliers,  who  hoped  to  mend  their  fortunes  in 
the  New  World ;  vagabonds  flying  from  justice ;  the  grasping  fol 
lowers  of  Narvaez,  and  his  own  reckless  veterans, — men  with 
hardly  a  common  tie,  and  burning  with  *the  spirit  of  jealousy  and 
faction ;  wild  tribes  of  the  natives  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
who  had  been  sworn  enemies  from  their  cradles,  and  who  had 
met  only  to  cut  one  another's  throats,  and  to  procure  victims 


180  WILLIAM     H.      PRESCOTT. 

for  sacrifice;  men,  in  short,  differing  in  race,  in  language,  and 
in  interests,  with  scarcely  anything  in  common  among  them.  Yet 
this  motley  congregation  was  assembled  in  one  camp,  compelled  to 
bend  to  the  will  of  one  man,  to  consort  together  in  harmony,  to 
breathe,  as  it  were,  one  spirit,  and  to  move  on  a  common  principle 
of  action!  It  is  in  this  wonderful  power  over  the  discordant 
masses  thus  gathered  under  his  banner,  that  we  recognise  the 
genius  of  the  great  commander,  no  less  than  in  the  skill  of  his 
military  operations." 

Here  again  the  historian  dwells  too  much  on  a  general  fact, 
and  absolutely  turns  it  into  an  individual  virtue.  This  was 
eminently  the  case  with  Hannibal,  Scipio,  and  many  other 
generals.  Then  why  seems  it  so  particular  in  Cortes  ? 

With  a  singular  mixture  of  simplicity  and  superfluity  of 
statement,  Mr.  Prescott  actually  favors  the  public  with  the 
reasons  for  this  result. 

"  His  power  over  the  minds  of  his  soldiers  was  a  natural  result 
of  their  confidence  in  his  abilities.  But  it  is  also  to  be  attributed 
to  his  popular  manners,— that  happy  union  of  authority  and  com 
panionship,  which  fitted  him  for  the  command  of  a  band  of  roving 
adventurers.  It  would  not  have  done  for  him  to  have  fenced  him 
self  round  with  the  stately  reserve  of  a  commander  of  regular 
forces.  He  was  embarked  with  his  men  in  a  common  adventure, 
aud  nearly  on  terms  of  equality,  since  he  held  his  commission  by 
no  legal  warrant.  But,  while  he  indulged  this  freedom  and  fami 
liarity  with  his  soldiers,  he  never  allowed  it  to  interfere  with  their 
strict  obedience,  nor  to  impair  the  severity  of  discipline.  When  he 
had  risen  to  higher  consideration,  although  he  affected  more  state, 
he  still  admitted  his  veterans  to  the  same  intimacy.  « He  prefer- 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  181 

red,'  says  Diaz,  « to  be  called  Cortes  by  us,  to  being  called  by  any 
title ;  and  with  good  reason,'  continues  the  enthusiastic  old  cava 
lier,  '  for  the  name  of  Cortes  is  as  famous  in  our  day  as  was  that  of 
Ceesar  among  the  Romans,  or  of  Hannibal  among  the  Cartha 
ginians.'  He  showed  the  same  kind  regard  towards  his  ancient 
comrades  in  the  very  last  act  of  his  life.  For  he  appropriated  a 
sum  by  his  will  for  the  celebration  of  two  thousand  masses  for  the 
souls  of  those  who  had  fought  with  him  in  the  campaigns  of 
Mexico." 

The  following  quotation  is,  however,  open  to  the  gravest 
censure  :  it  is  not  borne  out  by  the  evidence. 

"  Cortes  was  not  a  vulgar  conqueror.  He  did  not  conquer  from 
the  mere  ambition  of  conquest.  If  he  destroyed  the  ancient  capital 
of  the  Aztecs,  it  was  to  build  up  a  more  magnificent  capital  on  its 
ruins.  If  he  desolated  the  land,  and  broke  up  its  existing  institu 
tions,  he  employed  the  short  period  of  his  administration  in  digest 
ing  schemes  for  introducing  there  a  more  improved  culture  and  a 
higher  civilization.  In  all  his  expeditions  he  was  careful  to  study 
the  resources  of  the  country,  its  social  organization,  and  its  phy 
sical  capacities.  He  enjoined  it  on  his  captains  to  attend  par 
ticularly  to  these  objects.  If  he  was  greedy  of  gold,  like  most  of 
the  Spanish  cavaliers  in  the  New  World,  it  was  not  to  hoard  it, 
nor  merely  to  lavish  it  in  the  support  of  a  princely  establishment, 
but  to  secure  funds  for  prosecuting  his  glorious  discoveries.  Wit 
ness  his  costly  expeditions  to  the  Gulf  of  California.  His  enter 
prises  were  not  undertaken  solely  for  mercenary  objects;  as  is 
shown  by  the  various  expeditions  he  set  on  foot  for  the  discovery 
of  a  communication  between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific.  In  his 
schemes  of  ambition  he  showed  a  respect  for  the  interests  of 


182  WILLIAM     H.      PRESCOTT. 

science,  to  be  referred  partly  to  the  natural  superiority  of  his  mind, 
but  partly,  no  doubt,  to  the  influence  of  early  education.  It  is, 
indeed,  hardly  possible,  that  a  person  of  his  wayward  and  mercurial 
temper  should  have  improved  his  advantages  at  the  University,  but 
he  brought  away  from  it  a  tincture  of  scholarship,  seldom  found 
among  the  cavaliers  of  the  period,  and  which  had  its  influence  in 
enlarging  his  own  conceptions.  His  celebrated  Letters  are  written 
with  a  simple  elegance,  that,  as  I  have  already  had  occasion  to 
remark,  have  caused  them  to  be  compared  to  the  military  narrative 
of  Csesar.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  find  in  the  chronicles  of  the 
period  a  more  concise,  yet  comprehensive,  statement,  not  only  of 
the  events  of  his  campaigns,  but  of  the  circumstances  most  worthy 
of  notice  in  the  character  of  the  conquered  countries. 

"  Cortes  was  not  cruel ;  at  least,  not  cruel  as  compared  with 
most  of  those  who  followed  his  iron  trade.  The  path  of  the  con 
queror  is  necessarily  marked  with  blood.  He  was  not  too  scrupu 
lous,  indeed,  in  the  execution  of  his  plans.  He  swept  away  the 
obstacles  which  lay  in  his  track ;  and  his  fame  is  darkened  by  the 
commission  of  more  than  one  act  which  his  boldest  apologists 
will  find  it  hard  to  vindicate.  But  he  was  not  wantonly  cruel. 
He  allowed  no  outrage  on  his  unresisting  foes.  This  may  seem 
small  praise,  but  it  is  an  exception  to  the  usual  conduct  of  his 
countrymen  in  their  conquests,  and  it  is  something  to  be  in  ad 
vance  of  one's  time.  He  was  severe,  it  may  be  added,  in  enforcing 
obedience  to  his  orders  for  protecting  their  persons  and  their  pro 
perty.  With  his  licentious  crew,  it  was  sometimes  not  without 
hazard  that  he  was  so.  After  the  Conquest,  he  sanctioned  the 
system  of  repartimientos ;  but  so  did  Columbus.  He  endeavored 
to  regulate  it  by  the  most  humane  laws,  and  continued  to  suggest 
many  important  changes  for  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the 
natives.  The  best  commentary  on  his  conduct,  in  this  respect,  is 
the  deference  that  was  shown  him  by  the  Indians,  and  the  con- 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  183 

fidence  with  which  they  appealed  to  him  for  protection  in  all  their 
subsequent  distresses." 

Here  we  leave  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the  reader ;  we 
cannot  judge  so  favorably  of  the  great  butcher. 

Mr.  Prescott  concludes  his  character  of  the  warrior  by  this 
attempt  to  explain  away  or  account  for  his  superstition  : 

"One  trait  more  remains  to  be  noticed  in  the  character  of  this 
remarkable  man ;  that  is,  his  bigotry,  the  failing  of  the  age, — for 
surely  it  should  be  termed  only  a  failing.  When  we  see  the  hand, 
red  with  the  blood  of  the  wretched  native,  raised  to  invoke  the 
blessing  of  Heaven  on  the  cause  which  it  maintains,  we  experience 
something  like  a  sensation  of  disgust  at  the  act,  and  doubt  of  its 
sincerity.  Bnt  this  is  unjust.  We  should  throw  ourselves  back 
(it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated)  into  the  age ;  the  age  of  the  Cru 
sades.  For  every  Spanish  cavalier,  however  sordid  and  selfish 
might  be  his  private  motives,  felt  himself  to  be  the  soldier  of  the 
Cross.  Many  of  them  would  have  died  in  defence  of  it.  Who 
ever  has  read  the  correspondence  of  Cortes,  or,  still  more,  has 
attended  to  the  circumstances  of  his  career,  will  hardly  doubt  that 
he  would  have  been  among  the  first  to  lay  down  his  life  for  the 
Faith.  He  more  than  once  perilled  life,  and  fortune,  and  the  suc 
cess  of  his  whole  enterprise,  by  the  premature  and  most  impolitic 
manner  in  which  he  would  have  forced  conversion  on  the  natives. 
To  the  more  rational  spirit  of  the  present  day,  enlightened  by  a 
purer  Christianity,  it  may  seem  difficult  to  reconcile  gross  devia 
tions  from  morals  with  such  devotion  to  the  cause  of  religion. 
But  the  religion  taught  in  that  day  was  one  of  form  and  elaborate 
ceremony.  In  the  punctilious  attention  to  discipline,  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  was  permitted  to  evaporate.  The  mind,  occupied  with 


184  WILLIAM     H.     FRESCO  TT. 

forms,  thinks  little  of  substance.  In  a  worship  that  is  addressed 
too  exclusively  to  the  senses,  it  is  often  the  case  that  morality 
becomes  divorced  from  religion,  and  the  measure  of  righteousness 
is  determined  by  the  creed  rather  than  by  the  conduct." 


Our  historian  need  only  to  have  gone  to  the  Te  Deums 
of  London  and  Paris,  the  twin  centres  of  civilization,  for  an 
excuse  for  Hernando  Cortes.  We,  however,  expect  a  higher 
standard  from  a  man  of  Mr.  Prescott's  calibre. 

In  his  next  great  work,  the  "  Conquest  of  Peru,"  we  recog 
nise  a  still  greater  advance,  and  the  public  have  accorded  great 
preference  for  it.  It  is  undoubtedly  the  most  popular  of  Mr. 
Prescott's  productions. 

There  are  more  force  and  clearness  in  this  history  than  in  his 
others ;  the  adjuncts  are  painted  with  more  brilliancy,  and 
the  scenes  are  more  vividly  before  us.  Some  may  consider 
that  the  author  has  treated  this  with  more  freedom  of  coloring 
than  is  allowable,  but  we  incline  to  the  belief  that  a  historical 
picture  should  be  as  brightly  painted  as  a  scene  from  the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

The  "  Conquest  of  Peru  "  has  more  of  that  terrible  retribu 
tion  in  it  which  makes  history  a  great  instructor.  From  the 
first  page  to  the  last,  we  behold  that  master-spirit  of  cruelty, 
avarice,  and  fraud,  Pizarro,  preparing  for  his  own  inevitable 
fate.  His  very  successes,  almost  miraculous,  lure  him  to 
destruction.  And  after  a  time,  when  his  great  triumphs 
seemed  to  invest  him  with  the  monopoly  of  wrong-doing, 
he  falls  by  the  hands  of  assassins.  The  old  proverb,  "that 
sure  destruction  dogs  the  steps  of  crime,"  is  visible  in  the 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  185 

histories  of  Pizarro  and  Napoleon,  very  clearly.  But  the 
powers  they  offended  were  different.  The  Spaniard  outraged 
humanity ;  the  Corsican,  liberty.  The  recoil  was  equally 
crushing.  There  also  appears  a  sort  of  poetical  fitness  in 
the  punishments  awarded  to  each.  The  outrager  of  humanity 
lost  his  life ;  the  violator  of  liberty  his  freedom.  One  was 
killed ;  the  other  was  a  captive.  A  celebrated  poet  has  ob 
served,  that  the  history  of  the  world  is  a  game  of  chess  which 
has  not  yet  been  played  out.  What  is  termed  a  revolution 
is  merely  a  change  in  the  phase  of  the  game.  Many  may 
consider  this  the  view  of  a  Fatalist,  but  we  do  not  see 
why  this  word  should  be  used  when  there  is  the  better  word 
Necessity.  Fatalism,  in  human  progress,  is  Calvinism  in 
religion  :  it  paralyses  effort.  Under  one  aspect,  inaction  is 
as  good  as  energy.  But  this  is  only  one  aspect.  It  has, 
however,  the  counterbalancing  virtue  of  fortitude. 

No  sane  man  ever  believed  that  Calvinism  in  religion, 
and  Necessity  in  politics,  meant  stagnation  of  thought  and 
action.  This  would  be  a  living  death  ;  a  complete  and  suicidal 
solecism. 

The  true  light  by  which  history  ought  to  be  read,  is 
the  certainty  of  every  fact  producing  its  kind.  What  we 
sow,  we  reap.  Tyranny  is  the  parent  of  anarchy,  which,  in 
its  turn,  begets  another  despotism.  Throw  human  freedom 
down,  and  in  proportion  to  the  force  of  the  overthrow  will 
be  the  violence  of  the  rebound.  Action  and  reaction  revolve 
constantly,  and  produce  events  which  constitute  the  life  of 
humanity. 

It   would   be   a   curious   study  to  consider  the  world  dra- 


186  WILLIAM      H.      PRBSCOTT. 

matically.     To  take   an  age,  and   treat   it   as   an    act,  carry 
ing  out  Shakspeare's  maxim  : 

«  All  the  world's  a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and  women  merely  play 
ers." 

How  differently  would  the  actions  of  men  then  appear  ! 
With  what  greater  tolerance  should  we  regard  the  doers  of 
evil,  while  recognising  the  part  played  by  each,  and  the  neces 
sity  for  every  word  and  deed !  The  master-passion  of  an 
age  could  be  easily  detected,  and  the  vibration  of  the  human 
pendulum  seen  and  accounted  for.  The  life  of  the  human 
race  treated  in  this  manner  would,  however,  require  a  man 
of  first-rate  intellect.  He  must  be  the  Shakspeare  of  facts. 
A  fact  is  nothing  apart  from  its  cause.  It  is  a  dead  body. 
Motive  is  the  life  of  a  fact.  The  largest  collection  of  them 
in  the  world  would  be  but  hieroglyphics,  the  key  to  which 
is  lost ;  a  jumble  of  conjurors'  signs,  without  the  magical 
power.  But  when  the  skeleton  is  filled  up  with  flesh  and 
muscles,  a  nervous  system  added,  and  the  whole  garbed  in  the 
satiny  robe  of  skin,  we  perceive  the  beauty  of  the  living  form. 

We  do  not  wish  to  be  fanciful  in  a  critical  matter,  but 
we  think  we  shall  better  explain  our  theory  of  history  by 
carrying  out  this  metaphor,  than  by  a  lengthened  analysis. 

The  skeleton  of  history  is  undoubtedly  the  facts  themselves ; 
the  flesh  is  the  common  element  which  composes  the  masses  of 
mankind;  the  muscles  are  the  men  of  action;  the  nervous 
system  is  the  sympathies  and  intelligence  of  the  educated 
classes ;  the  brain  is  composed  of  the  thinking  men ;  the 


WILLIAM      H.      PRESCOTT.  187 

heart  is  the  philanthropist ;  the  skin  is  the  decency  of  life ;  and 
the  robes  in  which  the  form  is  clothed  are  the  changing 
fashions  and  popular  impressions  of  the  time. 

With  this  rough  view  of  the  question,  it  is  evident  that 
it  requires  a  peculiar  combination  to  faithfully  anatomize  this 
curious  and  elaborate  physique. 

We  have  before  alluded  to  the  besetting  sins  of  the  prin 
cipal  writers  of  history :  the  pomposity  and  infidelity  of  Gib 
bon  ;  the  passionless,  dry  detailism  of  Hallam ;  the  local  preju 
dice  and  half-philosophy  of  Robertson;  the  brilliant  poetical 
distortions  of  Michelet ;  the  artful  undercurrent  of  Guizot ;  the 
Romanist  bigotiy  of  Lingard ;  the  brilliant  special  pleading 
of  Macaulay ;  the  metaphysical  elaboration  of  Macintosh  ;  the 
strong  individuality  of  Carlyle  ;  the  patient  research  of  Sharon 
Turner ;  the  want  of  earnestness,  and  scepticism  of  Hume. 
This  list  comprises  the  principal  men  who  have  tried  their 
hands  on  this  difficult  branch  of  literature,  and  is  a  strong 
evidence  of  the  difficulty  of  success. 

Now,  the  American  writer  has  brought  to  his  task  pa 
tience — learning — an  earnest  desire  to  elicit  the  truth — a  clear 
and  picturesque  style — a  wish  to  acquaint  the  reader  with 
all  the  prominent  circumstances  of  the  case — and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  importance  of  throwing  himself  into  the 
prevailing  opinions,  feelings,  and  customs  of  the  times  de 
scribed. 

These  are  strong  points  in  his  favor,  and  we  feel  assured 
the  verdict  of  posterity  will  be,  that  although  he  is  inferior 
to  some  of  his  fellow-laborers  in  that  individual  force  which 


188  WILLIAM     H.     PEESCOTT. 

constitutes  genius,  he  is  far  more  qualified  to  present  to  the 
public  the  aggregate  result  of  his  various  labors. 

We  shall  not  discuss  his  volume  of  "Biographical  and 
Critical  Essays,"  as  we  here  treat  of  him  only  as  the  greatest 
historian  America  has  produced,  and  one  who  is  fully  equal 
to  sustain  an  honorable  comparison  with  his  European  breth 
ren.  We  predict  that  when  he  chooses  a  more  extended 
survey  of  the  biography  of  the  human  family  he  will  not 
be  found  wanting. 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  189 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BKYANT. 


THERE  is  a  calm  classical  dignity  about  Mr.  Bryant's 
muse,  which  in  the  eyes  of  many  is  considered  as  an  equiva 
lent  for  that  fire  and  energy  which  is  so  fascinating  to  the 
lovers  of  poetry.  The  tone  of  his  productions  is  elevated, 
but  not  stirring.  We  assent  to  his  reflections  :  we  do  not 
feel  with  him.  There  is  nothing  rapid  and  breathless  in 
his  flights :  they  are  equable  and  sustained.  There  is  an 
air  of  Grecian  elegance  about  his  writings,  which  convinces 
us  he  never  abandons  himself  to  the  impulses  of  the  Pytho 
ness.  At  times,  this  amounts  to  a  severity  which  chills  his 
readers,  and  impresses  them  with  the  idea  that  he  is  moraliz 
ing  iu  verse,  and  not  throwing  off  the  rushing  thoughts 
that  crowd  his  brain  in  the  first  bold  snatches  of  sound. 
There  is  more  of  the  cultivation  of  the  poet  than  of  the 
nature  or  instinct ;  indeed,  occasionally,  the  determination  to 
compose  is  painfully  apparent ;  it  seems  the  effort  of  his  will, 
and  not  a  revelation  of  his  hidden  spirit. 

It  is  not,  however,  for   the  reader  or   the  critic  to   deter- 


190  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

mine  in  what  shape  or  manner  a  poet  is  to  write.  We  ought 
to  allow  thankfully  the  gifted  one  to  develope  himself  according 
to  his  own  taste.  There  would  be  an  end  to  individuality 
if  we  were  to  insist  upon  an  author's  putting  himself  into 
this  or  that  character.  We  cheerfully  admit  that  the  man 
of  mind  ought  to  choose  his  own  circle  to  discourse  in  ;  never 
theless,  there  is  implanted  in  every  reader's  breast,  however 
faintly,  a  predisposition  for  the  more  exciting  kinds  of  com 
position,  more  especially  in  its  poetical  spirit.  This  constitutes 
the  cause  of  that  popularity  which  ever  and  anon  attends 
an  author  who  seizes  vigorously  on  the  most  salient  points 
of  human  attention.  This  was  pre-eminently  the  case  with 
Byron.  Every  being  has  a  certain  love  of  the  romantic  im 
planted  in  him,  which  at  once  responds  to  the  poet's  appeal. 
It  is  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  to  the  war-horse.  Who  ever 
heard  military  music  without  feeling  somewhat  of  the  soldier's 
spirit  roused  within,  however  apparently  peacefully-disposed  and 
gentle  in  everyday  life  ? 

What  Mr.  Bryant  gains  as  a  philosopher,  he  loses  as  a  poet. 
Not  that  a  poet  should  not  be  a  philosopher,  for  indeed 
he  cannot  be  one  without,  but  because  he  makes  the  secondary 
the  ascendant.  Poetry  includes  philosophy,  but  it  should  be 
hidden  by  the  poetical  glow,  as  the  color  of  blooming  health 
hides  the  white  skin  of  the  fair  maiden's  cheek.  This  sub 
stitution  of  the  lower  for  the  higher  faculty  is  very  apparent 
in  the  fine  poem  called  the  "Ages."  This  is  the  longest 
and  most  ambitious  of  Mr.  Bryant's  attempts.  The  subject  is 
admirably  fitted  for  the  display  of  power.  What  can  be 
more  susceptible  of  poetical  thought  and  expression  than  a 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  191 

rapid  review  of  the  history  of  the  world  ?  The  theme  is 
a  half-inspiration  of  itself.  Mr.  Bryant,  however,  looks  with 
the  eye  of  a  philosopher  on  the  varying  phases  of  humanity, 
and  although  we  read  with  an  attentive  pleasure,  we  do 
not  feel  that  delight  which  we  know  the  subject  is  so  admirably 
calculated  to  afford.  We  miss  those  vigorous,  golden  pas 
sages,  which  compel  us  to  pause,  and  read  again  out  of 
the  mere  enthusiasm  of  admiration. 

We  quote  a  few  stanzas  as  illustrations  of  the  manner 
in  which  our  poet  treats  the  scenes  presented  to  his  imagi 
nation. 

The  first  we  offer  is  a  very  striking  one  : 

"  Look  on  this  beautiful  world,  and  read  the  truth 
In  her  fair  page ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth : 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.     Eternal  Love  doth  keep 

In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  deep." 

The  critic  will  observe  a  very  awkward  "  doth  keep."  A 
poet  of  Mr.  Bryant's  great  powers  of  versification  should  not 
have  sat  down  under  this  verbal  defect,  small  as  it  is.  We 
are  more  exacting  from  him,  because  he  is  one  of  the  few 
American  poets  who  have  attained  a  classical  polish. 

The  opening  to  the  panorama  of  the  past  is  admirably 
introduced : 


192  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

«  Sit  at  the  feet  of  history— through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace, 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can  pierce  the  eternal  shadows  o'er  the  face  ; — 
When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went  forth  the  tribes  of  men,  their  pleasant  lot 
To  choose,  where  palm-groves  cooled  their  dwelling-place, 
Or  freshening  rivers  ran ;  and  there  forgot 

The  truth  of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that  heard  them  not. 

"  Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the  might, 
His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcase  lay ; 
The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.     The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar  from  men." 

The  poet  very  felicitously  alludes  to  the  dark  ages  of 
history,  where  so  great  a  gap  of  annals  exists — when  even 
tradition  dies  into  silence — and  oblivion  would  be  complete 
were  it  not  for  the  mouldering  ruins  of  unknown  cities. 

"  Those  ages  have  no  memory — but  they  left 
A  record  in  the  desert — columns  strown 
On  the  waste  sands,  and  statues  fallen  and  cleft, 
Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city ;  streets  that  spread 
In  the  dark  earth,  where  never  breath  has  blown 
Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares  tread 

The  long  and  perilous  ways — the  Cities  of  the  Dead  : 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  193 

"  And  tombs  of  monarchs  to  the  clouds  up-piled — 
They  perished — but  the  eternal  tombs  remain — 
And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane; — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night-heaven,  when  clouds  are  black  with  rain. 
But  idly  skill  was  tasked,  and  strength  was  plied, 

All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's  pride." 

The  poet's  eye  then  rests  on  Greece,  and  in  two  stanzas 
gives  his  impressions. 

In  the  apostrophe  to  Rome  we  feel  the  philosophical  cool 
ness  of  Mr.  Bryant  in  its  full  force  of  negativing  his  poetry. 
There  is  too  much  of  the  abstract.  More  can  be  gathered 
often  from  a  small  event  than  from  a  dry  balance-sheet  of 
the  result.  We  may  call  these  personal  traits  of  a  nation. 
As  an  instance  of  the  two  styles  of  treating  the  subject,  we 
will  compare  Mr.  Bryant  with  Byron.  One,  all  philosopher  ; 
the  other,  all  poet:  we  mean,  of  course,  so  far  as  these 
views  go. 

"  And  Rome — thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who  awed  the  world  with  her  imperial  frown — 
Rome  drew  the  spirit  of  her  race  from  thee, — 
The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  woe  with  guilt,  and  plagues  came  down, 
Till  the  north  broke  its  floodgates,  and  the  waves 
Whelmed  the  degraded  race,  and  weltered  o'er  their  graves." 

The  generalization  here  materially  interferes  with  the  clear- 


194  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

ness  and  vividness  of  the  effect  to  be  produced.     Let  us  turn 
to  Byron,  and  see  how  he  treats  it. 

"  I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand— his  manly  brow 

Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low— 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 

The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won. 

"  He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  ? — Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire !" 

We  are  willing  to  admit  that  it  is  scarcely  just  to  select 
a  verse  at  random  from  the  American,  and  compare  it  with 
one  of  the  most  successful  efforts  of  the  great  English  poet. 
We,  however,  only  intend  by  this  comparison  to  illustrate 
that  we  think  Mr.  Bryant  has  injured  a  fine  subject  by 
throwing  over  it  too  frigid  a  mantle  of  philosophy. 

With  respect  to  the  origin  of  these  celebrated  verses  to 
the  Gladiator,  it  is  stated  that  Byron  was  indebted  for  them 
to  Shelley.  It  has  been  said  by  Leigh  Hunt,  that  during 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  195 

the  time  the  "  gloomy  Clrilde "  was  in  daily  intercourse  with 
Shelley  a  very  perceptible  change  in  his  poetry  is  visible. 
We  throw  this  out  as  a  study  for  the  curious. 

In   the   progress  of  his   review  of  the   world   Mr.   Bryant 
comes  to  the  New  World,  and  thus  speaks : 

"  Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning  chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  that  threw  its  shroud 
O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful  waste, 
Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter-up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness  rear, 
Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts  were  loud 
Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 

Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf  yelled  near." 

Having   thus   traced   the   march   of    civilization   westward, 

O 

rising  in  the  east  like  the  sun,  to  travel  to  the  west :  going 
down  perhaps  there,  like  the  physical  light,  to  rise  again 
in  the  east;  the  poet  finishes  his  history  by  this  apostrophe 
to  his  native  land : 

"  But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
Save  with  thy  children — thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all — 
These  are  thy  fetters — seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies :  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 

How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell  ]" 

It  may  be  affirmed  that  his  intention  was  to  take  a  calm 


196  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

general  view  of  the  ages  of  the  world ;  if  so,  he  has  perfectly 
succeeded  as  a  philosopher,  but  failed  somewhat  as  a  poet. 
We  may  also  observe  that  we  do  not  think  he  shines  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza. 

Our  readers  must  not  think,  because  we  intend  to  consider 
this  phase  of  his  mind  the  first,  that  we  are  wilfully  blind  to 
his  other  faculties.  We  shall  now  enter  into  an  exposition  of 
the  more  agreeable  and  stirring  parts  of  his  nature. 

The  tendency  to  moralize  is  an  evil  when  indulged  in  indis 
criminately  ;  and  a  greater  one  when  it  is  superinduced.  Mr. 
Bryant's  productions  are,  however,  so  pervaded  by  this  predis 
position  that  it  is  the  leading  faculty  of  his  mind.  It  is, 
indeed,  his  very  nature.  This  will  always  give  a  value  to 
his  reflections  over  the  mere  artificial  moralist.  We  feel  that 
it  is  genuine  thought — no  make-believe — it  is  deep  from  the  } 
poet's  soul.  He  looks  on  nature  with  a  sad  calmness,  like 
Wordsworth's  muse  in  many  of  his  finest  moods.  He,  how 
ever,  falls  short  of  the  art  shown  by  the  author  of  "Netley 
Abbey,"  of  hiding  his  intention.  As  we  said  before,  Mr. 
Bryant  labors  to  obtrude  his  design;  this,  with  all  deference 
to  so  true  a  poet,  we  think  an  error,  either  of  judgment  or 
execution. 

We  give,  as  an  instance,  the  commencement  of  the  "  Inscrip 
tion  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood." 

"  Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 
No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  197 

And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 

Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 

But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 

Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.     Hence,  these  shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness ;  the  thick  roof 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 

And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 

In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 

Chirps  merrily."  * 

Again,  in  his  "  Thanatopsis,"  there  is  too  much  ostentation 
of  purpose  expressed  in  the  opening. 

"  To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware."        *        * 

While  we  are  on  this  trail  we  may  as  well  quote  a  few 
instances  of  this  peculiarity,  and  then  dismiss  the  subject  alto 
gether.  It  seems  as  though  Mr.  Bryant  could  not  begin  a  sub 
ject  in  blank  verse,  without  a  superfluity  of  explanation,  which 
materially  destroys  the  pleasure  of  the  perusal.  It  is  very 

9 


198  WILLIAM      CULL  EN      BRYANT. 

much  like  impairing  the  unexpectedness  of  a  play  by  unneces 
sarily  announcing  the  denouement  before  it  begins.  All  writing, 
more  especially  poetry,  is  dramatic,  and  very  much  of  all  its 
interest  depends  upon  curiosity.  In  addition  to  this  besetting 
tendency,  alike  characteristic  of  Wordsworth  and  Bryant,  is  a 
prolixity  in  the  opening  sentences  in  many  of  his  poems.  Few 
poets  can  write  simpler,  closer  English  than  Mr.  Bryant,  but 
mark  how  feeble  is  the  commencement  of  a  very  fine  poem  : 

"  The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  fiutterings — I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods." 

There  is  a  homely  phrase  of  "  putting  one's  best  leg  fore 
most;"  but  our  poet  seems  to  take  a  delight  in  putting  his 
dullest  thought  and  feeblest  verse  at  the  porch  of  his  otherwise 
fine  structures  of  verse.  We  should  advise  the  man  who 
opened  Bryant  for  the  first  time  to  plunge  into  the  middle  of 
each  poem  at  once,  and  read  right  through  to  the  end  ;  it  takes 
him  a  dozen  lines  to  get  warmed  sufficient  to  go  on  with  his 
theme.  We  now  dismiss  our  objections  on  this  score,  and  con 
sider  the  brighter  side  of  his  poetical  world. 

In  the  opening  linos  to  that  beautiful  composition  called  "The 
Burial  Place,"  there  is  a  piece  of  quiet  painting  very  effective  : 

"Erewhile,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our  sires 
Left  not  their  churchyards  unadorned  with  shades 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  199 

Or  blossoms ;  and  indulgent  to  the  strong 

And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 

Its  frost  and  silence — they  disposed  around, 

To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 

Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 

Of  vegetable  beauty.     There  the  yew, 

Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 

Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 

The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped ; 

And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 

And  there  the  ancient  ivy.     From  the  spot 

Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming  years 

Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 

That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 

Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better  spoke 

Her  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 

There  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 

The  pansy.     On  the  infant's  little  bed, 

Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 

Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 

Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.     Childless  dames 

And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened  eye — 

Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 

Fled  early, — silent  lovers,  who  had  given 

All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 

Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 

Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers." 

We  were  somewhat  jarred  at  one  expression  in  these  lines — 
"  of  vegetable  beauty" — it  sounded  strangely  out  of  keeping. 

As  a  diversion  from  these  snatches  of  blank  verse,  let  us 
quote  a  song. 


200  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

"  Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Reflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear, 
The  hunter  of  the  west  must  go 
In  depth  of  woods  to  seek  the  deer. 

"His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 
His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced, — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 

"Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 

Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 
He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 

«*  And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 

And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 

He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer." 

We  merely  point  out,  as  a  singular  trait  in  the  compositions 
of  so  classical  a  writer  as  Mr.  Bryant,  the  numerous  expletive 
epithets  he  indulges  in  ;  he  very  often  weakens  the  whole  force 
of  a  thought  by  one  needless  or  uncharacteristic  adjective.  We 
think  this  line  an  illustration  of  our  remark: 

"  Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow." 

The  words  "  must  go "  also  seem  deficient  in  naturalness  of 
expression. 

As  a  specimen  of  graceful  and  elaborate  writing  few  exceed 
"  The  Indian  Girl's  Lament." 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  201 

"  An  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 

Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept ; 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 

Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept ; 
And  wildly,  hi  her  woodland  tongue, 
This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung : 

"'I've  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 

Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 
And  broke  the  forest  boughs  that  threw 

Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 
That,  shining  from  the  sweet  south-west, 
The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 

" '  It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 

That  led  thee  to  the  pleasant  coast, 
Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 

Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost ; 
Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 
On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 

" '  'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 

That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land ; 
'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid 

Beside  thy  still  cold  hand ; 
Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 
Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

" '  With  wampum  belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 

And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 
And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 

In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 
And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 
A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 


202  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

« «  Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 

The  long  dark  journey  of  the  grave, 
And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 

Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave  ; 
Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 
The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there. 

"'  Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 

Even  there  thy  thoughts  will  earthward  stray, — 

To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 
And  weeps  the  hours  away, 

Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget 

To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 

"'  And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many-colored  shade. 

"'  And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 

My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blessed, 
And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 

From  the  bright  land  of  rest, 
Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 
The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near." 

In  the  "  Old  Man's  Funeral "  the  moralizing  mantle  descends 
upon  the  poet,  and  he  thus  similitudes  : 

"  I  saw  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  wlu'te,  and  on  his  brow 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  203 

A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year ; — 

Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed  aloud. 

"Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 

In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 
'Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead? 

Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 
Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 
Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the  ripened  mast. 

"'  Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 
In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 

Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 
And  leaves  the  smile  of  Ms  departure,  spread, 
O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain  head.'  " 

After  working  out  the  metaphor  very  elaborately,  step  by 
step,  the  aged  mourner  thus  closes  his  homily  over  his  dead 
brother  : 

" '  And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 

And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 
Nor  can  I  deem  that  nature  did  him  wrong, 

Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 
For  when  his  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 
Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die.' " 

All  this  is  very  noble  writing,  but  surely  it  is  somewhat  too 
curiously  considered,  taking  into  account  the  scene  ;  the  speaker 
o'er-refines  for  nature. 

There    are   times,  however,   when  the    moralizing  mood  is 


204 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 


thrown  aside,  and  a  snatch  of  pure  song  comes  out.  The  Song 
of  Wooing  is  gailj  done  ;  it  is  a  double  pleasure  to  meet  Mr. 
Bryant  in  these  moods  : 

"Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near, 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft, 

Would  that  men's  were  truer ! 

"Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love,— 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

"Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking ; 
When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing ; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 
Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

"Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 
Tinge  the  woody  mountain ; 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  20 


When  the  dropping  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

"Woo  her,  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story." 

We  feel  sure  no  better  plan  can  be  laid  for  testing  the 
powers  of  a  poet  than  by  comparing  him  with  some  brother 
bard.  Let  our  readers  study  Bryant's  "  Address  to  a  Cloud," 
commencing 

"  Beautiful  cloud !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air  ! 
Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow ; 
Where,  midst  their  labor,  pause  the  reaper  train 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 
Beautiful  cloud  !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea : 
To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book  ; 
On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands ; 
9* 


206  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

And  hear  her  humming  cities  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 
Ay— I  would  sail  upon  thy  air-borne  car 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 
To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 
Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  bright  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie." 

From  this  cloud  let  them  step  to  Shelley's  poem  beginning 
"  I  bring  fresh  showers  to  the  fainting  flowers." 

This  is,  however,  too  well  known  to  require  quotation.  Let  our 
readers  turn  to  it  and  judge  for  themselves.  Let  it,  however, 
be  fully  borne  in  mind,  once  for  all,  that  we  never  institute  a  com 
parison  with  any  poet  with  an  invidious  intention  ;  we  despise 
that  method  of  detraction.  We  merely  do  it  to  call  out  the 
idiosyncrasy  of  one  poet  by  contrasting  him  with  another. 
Indeed,  they  are  intended  as  contrasts,  and  not  as  comparisons, 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word.  Nature  remains  the  same 
great  and  unchangeable  being,  while  every  poet  is  a  mirror 
which  flashes  a  different  light  upon  this  grand  object 

The  arrogant  assumption  of  the  world  ignores  or  despises  the 
existence  of  a  single  human  being.  We  read  the  birth  of  this, 
and  the  death  of  that,  with  a  composure  perfectly  icy.  But  the 
man  of  thought  or  feeling  regards  it  in  a  very  different  light. 
With  every  babe  born  is  its  accompanying  universe ;  to  every 
man  dead  the  universe  as  it  seemed  to  him  has  passed  away 
like  a  forgotten  dream.  We  defy  the  veriest  fool  to  overrate  a 
birth  or  a  death.  The  disappearance  of  a  star  or  the  advent  01 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  207 

a  comet  is  considered  as  an  object  of  special  wonder  *,  what 
would  be  said  if  we  were  told  that  all  the  stars  of  heaven  had 
flashed  their  last,  and  that  one  peculiar  aspect  of  creation  had 
perished  !  In  no  two  men  has  nature  had  the  same  voice,  and 
the  same  look.  She  has  a  tone  and  a  glance  exclusive  to  every 
one,  from  Adam  to  the  last  of  his  birth ;  like  a  fascinating 
beauty  she  has  her  crowd  of  lovers ;  each  is  received  into  her 
secret  bower — each  is  deluded  she  is  his  own,  and  under  this 
delusion  the  poet,  philosopher,  peer,  ploughboy,  and  felon  dies. 
All  know  that  she  smiles  on  all.  Yet  to  every  one  is  given  the 
belief  that  she  prizes  him  as  her  own  beloved  one.  This  is  the 
egotism  of  man.  On  that  consoling  pillow  lie  gathers  strength 
in  the  dark  night  of  the  world's  reproach,  to  baffle  his  enemies 
on  the  morrow. 

The  veriest  tyro  in  logic  will  at  once  perceive  that  our  esti 
mate  of  a  poet  is  somewhat  analogous  to  the  old  idea  of  a 
prophet,  for  if  we  place  so  great  a  numeral  value  on  a  man,  it 
is  evident  our  reverence  for  the  sublimation  of  a  man  is  great 
in  proportion. 

To  Mr.  Bryant,  therefore,  we  assign  the  position  of  a  mirror 
in  which  all  history  and  humanity,  as  well  as  physical  nature, 
are  reflected  as  they  appeal-  to  him.  Thus  we  claim  for  every 
man  as  important  a  vocation  in  time,  as  we  are  taught  by 
Christ  to  demand  for  him  in  Eternity.  That  divine  teacher  has 
said,  "  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  though  he  gain  the  whole 
world,  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?"  And  then  he  confirms  all  by 
saying,  "  What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ?"  As 
the  soul  of  every  one  includes  the  whole  universe,  the  impor 
tance  is  at  once  self-evident. 


208 


WILLIAM    ctiLLEN    BRYANT. 


In  *The  Lapse  of  Time,"  Bryant  seems  to  take  for  granted 
part  of  our  theory,  for  he  says : 

"  Lament  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 

The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly : 
I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 
But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 
*  *  *  * 

"  The  future ! — cruel  were  the  power, 

Whose  doom  would  tear  thee  from  my  heart 
Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour ! 
We  cannot— no— we  will  not  part  I" 

*  *  *  * 

Immediately  after  comes  a  natural  reflection. 

"  Thou  fliest  and  bearest  away  our  woe, 

And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 
The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart." 

In  the  "Forest  Hymn,"  we  see  a  better  system  at  work 
Instead  of  a  needless  introduction,  the  poet  at  once  opens 
boldly  and  truly  into  the  subject. 

"  The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 

o  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them,-ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 


WILLIAM     CULLEN      fiRYANt. 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 

And  from  the  grey  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Oifer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear." 

Then,  however,  comes  the  supererogation  we  so  often  have 
complained  of : 

«  Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker." 

All    this   was   surely   implied   in   the   foregoing,   and   had 
already  passed  through  the  reader's  mind. 


210  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

In  the  later  poems  we  do  not  see  much  advance  on  his 
earlier  effusions.  The  same  calm  spirit  looking  on  men,  not  as 
one  of  them  fighting  in  the  throng  of  battle,  giving  and 
receiving  blows,  but  on  an  eminence,  where,  above  the  smoke 
of  the  conflict  and  the  tumult  of  the  conflict,  he  can  see 
as  a  spectator :  removed  from  the  turmoil,  he  can  draw  his 
conclusions. 

In  his  verses  "  To  the  Apennines,"  he  combines  the  ideal  of 
paradise  with  the  locale  of  Peru. 

"  Your  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines  ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenest  skies  ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with  pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold." 

This  is  another  proof  how  much  some  poets  feel  with  the 
brain.  Reflection  here  has  yokt\^the  dissimilar.  We  must 
confess  that  we  had  hoped  for  a  more  personal,  humanizing 
conclusion,  than  the  frigid  summing  up  of- — 

"  In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 
Her  image ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 

Clouds  come  and  rest  and  leave  your  fairy  peaks ; 
While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 

And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by  power, 

Pine  silently  for  the  redeeming  hour." 

Mr.  Bryant  very  seldom  originates  his  subject ;  he  generally 
selects  some  well-known  fact,  and  after  amplifying  it,  he  then 
closes  his  poem  by  drawing  a  moral.  That  there  is  a  moral  in 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  211 

everything  we  need  no  instructor  to  assure  us  ;  but  as  this  pro 
pensity  to  point  it  out  seems  part  of  our  poet's  nature,  we  must 
not  blame  him  for  it.  We  may,  however,  be  permitted  to 
express  our  opinion,  that  it  very  greatly  interferes  with  his 
immortality  as  a  master  of  song.  In  his  "  Death  of  Schiller," 
we  have  his  method  of  teaching  by  verse  very  fairly  set  down. 

"  Tis  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 

The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind 
To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human-kind. 

"Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams, 

By  Rome  and  Egypt's  ancient  graves ; 
Went  up  the  New  World's  forest  streams, 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo's  temple-caves ; 

"Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 

The  sallow  Tartar,  midst  his  herds, 
The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark 
False  Malay  uttering  gentle  words. 

"  How  could  he  rest  ?  even  then  he  trod 

The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown ; 
Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 
A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone ; 

"  Shone  and  awoke  the  strong  desire, 

For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 
Till,  freed  by  death,  his  soul  of  fire 
Sprang  to  a  fairer,  ampler  sphere. 


212  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

"Then— who  shall  tell  how  deep,  how  bright 

The  abyss  of  glory  opened  round  ] 
How  thought  and  feeling  flowed  like  light, 
Through  ranks  of  being  without  bound  1" 

In  his  lines  to  the  memory  of  William  Leggett,  we  have  a 
verse  which  gives  a  felicitous  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
impulsive  poetry  should  be  Written. 

"The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 

Were  flung  upon  the  fervent  page, 
Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age." 

And  his  power  of  personification  at  times  comes  out  in  bold 
and  broad  relief. 

"  Oh  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee  ; 
They  could  not  quench  thedife  thou  hast  from  heaven. 
Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

Fall  outward  ;  terribly  them  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies." 

In  the  piece  entitled  "  Seventy-Six "  there  is  a  force  of  dic 
tion  which  rings  out  loud  and  clear. 

"  What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,  through  the  fresh  awakened  land, 

The  thralling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 

And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand. 

"Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 
And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 
Into  the  forest's  heart. 

"Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain  river  swift  and  cold ; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 

Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold,— 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 

And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 

Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 
To  battle  to  the  death. 

"  The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  that  day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  grey, 


214  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 
And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

"Already  had  the  strife  begun ; 

Already  blood  on  Concord's  plain 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run. 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

"That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore ; 
In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred — 
The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more." 

Mr.  Bryant  has  certainly  the  rare  merit  of  having  written 
a  stanza  which  will  bear  comparison  with  any  four  lines  in  our 
recollection.  The  thought  is  complete,  the  expression  perfect. 
A  poem  of  a  dozen  such  verses  would  be  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
each  above  a  king's  ransom.  A  sermon  could  be  preached 
from  sucb  a  text  as  the  following.  Let  every  reader  commit 
it  to  heart,  and  when  battered  down  by  the  sudden  blow  of  a 
deliberate  falsehood,  let  him  repeat  it  to  himself,  and  live  on 
with  unabated  heart. 

"  Truth  crushed  to  earth  shall  rise  again  : 

The  Eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers." 

This  verse  has  always  read  to  us  as  one  of  the  noblest  in  the 
English  language. 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  215 

"  The  Disinterred  Warrior"  is  probably  his  best  poem,  consi 
dering  its  length. 

"  Gather  him  to  his  grave  again, 
And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 
The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away." 

As  we  regard  Mr.  Bryant  as  infinitely  the  most  classical  poet 
of  the  western  world,  he  must  pardon  our  objecting  to  the  need 
less  epithet  of  " softly"  in  the  second  line  of  this  otherwise  fine 
verse.  There  is  a  mincing  step  in  its  sound  which  spoils  the 
effect  of  the  previous  one  of  "  solemnly."  "  Solemn  and  soft " 
do  not  harmonize  well,  either  in  poetry  or  in  prose.  The  idea  is 
complete  without.  The  next  stanza  is  confirmatory  of  our 
opinion. 

"  Pay  the  deep  reverence  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  Death  ! 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

"  The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part, — 

That  remnant  of  a  martial  brow, — 
Those  ribs,  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 
That  strong  arm — strong  no  longer  now !" 

The  last  verse  is  only  a  dilution  of  the  two  preceding  lines. 
It  is  another  proof  of  how  frequently  Bryant  weakens  a  noble 
metaphor  by  a  needless  elaboration.  Not  content,  however, 
with  the  bold,  graphic  force  of  his  first  expression,  he  elongates 
it  till  the  force  is  considerably  impaired. 


216  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

"  Spare  them — each  mouldering  relic  spare, 

Of  God's  own  image :  let  them  rest, 
Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 
The  awful  likeness  was  impressed." 

There  is  more  of  curious  thought  than  truth  or  simplicity  in 
the  following,  although  it  has  been  highly  praised  by  some 
critics. 

"  For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 

That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 
And  to  the  elements  did  stand 
In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race." 

We  repeat,  that  there  is  more  of  "  fancy"  than  "  truth  "  in 
this  stanza.  We  do  not  see  the  natural  force  of  Mr  Bryant 
Saying  that,  being  born  a  century  ago,  brings  us  nearly  related 
to  either  fire,  air,  earth,  or  water.  This  is,  in  our  humble 
opinion,  a  very  false  species  of  poetry, 

"  In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tost, 

In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path, 
He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 
But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath." 
****** 

But  we  must  forgive  this  probable  error  when  we  remember 
these  lines. 

"  The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 
The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe." 

To  those  who  know  the  nature  of  a  Red  Indian  these  two  lines 
are  perfect  in  their  portraiture.  Even  to  us,  an  Englishman,  we 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  2lY 

feel  the  force  and  beauty  of  the  description,  but  then  we  con 
fess  to  a  long  and  careful  study  of  Cooper,  the  best  substitute 
for  nature.  While  these  sheets  have  been  passing  through  the 
press,  we  have  observed  how  inadequately  we  have  expressed 
our  admiration  of  this  great  novelist's  scenes  from  nature.  We 
lately  met  one  who  had  been  a  dweller  in  the  woods,  and  a 
roamer  over  the  prairies  of  this  magnificent  country,  and  he 
declared  that  next  to  having  been  in  those  scenes  was  the  study 
of  Cooper.  He  concluded  by  declaring  that  Mr.  Irving's  de 
scription  of  the  prairie  was  a  mere  "  pic-nic "  account  of  an 
amateur  visit ;  if  we  are  wrong  here,  the  American  public  will 
very  properly  correct  us. 

To  return  to  Mr.  Bryant.  How  gloriously  the  poet  recovers 
himself,  and  throws  his  whole  force  into  the  concluding  verse. 

"  A  noble  race,  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 

Ah !  let  us  spare  at  least  their  graves !" 

We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  quoting  two  stanzas  from 
"  The  Lapse  of  Time,"  merely  to  avow  our  firm  conviction  in 
the  truth  of  the  prophecy. 

"  The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land, 
Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth 
And  nurse  her  strength — till  she  shall  stand 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth ! 


218  WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT. 

"  Till  younger  commonwealths  for  aid 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 
And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe  !" 

It  may  be  safely  predicated,  by  any  one  accustomed  to  look 
philosophically  at  the  movements  of  time,  that  it  is  reserved  for 
the  American  republic  to  shield  her  great  parent,  England  her 
self,  from  the  assaults  of  the  old  despotisms. 

From  this  historical  glance  into  the  future,  let  us  turn  to  a 
pleasant  page  in  Mr.  Bryant's  present.  It  is  a  short  description 
of  an  American  nymph. 

"  Oh !  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 
Thy  sports — thy  wanderings — when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild : 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart,  and  in  thy  face. 
The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 
Thy  step  is  in  the  wind  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves ; 
Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook." 

We  cannot  help  breaking  oft;  in  this  otherwise  beautiful 
poem,  to  remark  that  unfortunate  taste  which  compelled  Mr. 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  219 

Bryant  to  spoil  the  fine  natural  effect  of  his  entire  poem,  by 
comparing  a  lady's  eyelashes  into  herbs  hanging  down  Narcis 
sus-like,  and  admiring  themselves  in  the  "  gutta  serena  "  of  her 
own  eyes.  As  usual,  however,  he  rallies,  and  winds  up  the 
whole  poem  nobly  and  appropriately. 

"  The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unprest, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast : 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there." 

The  companion  picture  to  the  American  maiden  of  Bryant 
is  Wordsworth's  beautiful  verses  to  the  English  wife.  A 
poet  seldom  succeeds  when  he  praises  one  of  his  own  family, 
but  here  Mrs.  Wordsworth  has  inspired  the  poet  of  Rydal. 
These  are  well  known  to  be  addressed  to  his  wife. 

"SHE    WAS    A    PHANTOM. 

"  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

"  I  saw  her  upon  nearer  vi  ew, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free 


220  WILLIAM      CULLBN      BRYANT. 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

«  And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command : 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light." 

In  our  foregoing  extracts  we  have  endeavored  to  illustrate 
ever}-  opinion  and  observation  we  have  made  by  characteristic 
extracts  from  the  poet's  writing.  It  is  impossible  to  rise  from 
the  study  of  Mr.  Bryant's  poems  without  feeling  more  in  har 
mony  with  nature  and  man  than  the  spirit  generally  feels.  We 
know  that  we  have  been  calmly,  kindly  reasoned  with  by  a 
good,  calm,  sad,  Christian  man,  who,  having  no  turbulence  in 
himself,  endeavors  to  throw  the  quiet  mantle  of  his  own 
reflective  spirit  over  his  companions. 

He  looks  upon  nature  with  the  platonic  admiration  of  a  sage, 
and  not  with  the  disturbing  passion  of  a  lover ;  he  feels  towards 
all  visible  beauty  more  as  a  friend  than  as  a  wooer,  and  in  this 
spirit  realizes  the  thought  of  Shakspeare  : 


WILLIAM      CULLEN      BRYANT.  221 

"  Happy  is  your  grace 

That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style !" 

He  looks  uipon  the  physical  world  as  a  storehouse  of  moral 
reflection,  calculated  to  make  us  wiser  and  better  men,  and  con 
siders  his  fellow-creatures  more  as  creatures  to  be  reasoned  into 
virtue  and  submission,  than  to  be  roused  into  exertion  against  evil, 
or  to  be  tamed  into  the  recognition  of  a  supreme  good.  In  a 
word,  he  finds 

"  Books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything  1" 


10 


222  FITZ-GREENE      IIALLECK. 


FITZ-GBEENE     HALLECK, 


THE  author  of  "  Fanny  "  possesses  many  qualities  calculated 
to  make  him  a  popular  poet ;  he  also  has  one  or  two  which 
may,  as  time  rolls  on,  peril  his  existence  as  part  of  the  enduring 
national  literature  of  America. 

He  has  fancy,  versification,  a  keen  eye  lor  the  incongruous, 
and  a  taste  for  the  beautiful ;  but  against  these  gifts  must  be 
set  off  his  want  of  earnestness.  We  are  never  certain  he  feels 
his  subject ;  he  writes  about  it  well  and  wittily ;  and  in  some 
of  his  poems  he  displays  a  truthfulness  and  depth  worthy  of 
any  poet,  but  the  mood  seems  to  pass  away,  and  he  becomes 
the  Mephistophilean  jester  at  the  various  passions  and  pursuits  of 
the  world.  This  is  a  mind  which  is  not  calculated  to  produce 
a  solid  impression  on  the  public ;  they  require  a  breadth  and 
depth  in  the  treatment  of  a  subject  which  are  incompatible  with 
its  nature.  It  requires  a  poet  of  great  and  varied  powers,  like 
Byron,  to  achieve  a  permanent  reputation  without  this  truth 
fulness  of  intellect ;  it  may  be  said  that  even  the  author  of 
"Childe  Harold"  has  not  stood  the  critical  test.  Many  poets 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  223 

have  been  famous  in  their  time,  and  even  in  the  generation 
after  them,  and  yet  have  been  negatived  by  posterity. 

The  secret  of  Byron's  success  in  "  Don  Juan "  lies  in  that 
love  of  unexpectedness  which  is  so  constituent  a  part  of  human 
nature.  However  absurd  and  dangerous  a  practical  joke  may 
be,  it  invariably  draws  forth  a  laugh  from  the  majority.  In 
this  mixed  style  of  poetry  there  is  a  kind  of  intellectual  contra 
diction,  which  in  some  shape  approximates  to  the  same  habit 
of  mind. 

In  addition  to  this  feature  in  the  human  character,  Byron 
made  an  appeal  to  the  beautiful  and  the  heroic.  "  Don  Juan " 
not  only  abounds  with  passages  which  apparently  ignore  the 
existence  of  all  love,  truth,  devotion,  and  the  better  parts  of  our 
nature,  but  also  with  the  finest  appeals  to  these  very  elements. 
These  are  too  numerous  to  need  enumeration  ;  a  rapid  glance 
at  the  poem  will  convince  the  most  sceptical.  There  is  also 
another  attraction  in  this  kind  of  writing,  and  it  consists  in  the 
easiness  with  which  some  piquant  lines  are  remembered  by  rea 
son  of  the  double  and  generally  felicitous  rhymes. 

We  shall,  however,  commence  with  Mr.  Halleck's  shorter 
poems,  and  close  our  notice  with  a  short  analysis  of  his  chief 
production  called  "Fanny."  As  he  has  written  very  little 
verse,  we  shall  try  him  by  a  more  careful  standard  than  that  ap 
plied  to  men  of  more  extensive  productions.  Nor  is  this  unjust 
on  other  grounds.  There  is  an  evident  polish  about  his  lines  ; 
the  first  glance  shows  the  elaborate  care  with  which  every 
thought  has  been  expressed  ;  there  is  not  much  of  that  "  aban 
don  "  which  characterizes  some  poets. 

We  are  not  quite  sure  whether  Mr.  Halleck   intends   the 


224  FITZ-GREHKE      HALLECK. 

verses  in  "  Red  Jacket"  to  be  complimentary  to  Mr.  Cooper  or 
not;  some  suppose  there  is  a  gentle  sarcasm  on  the  great 
novelist's  national  egotism. 

"  Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 

First  in  her  files  her  Pioneer  of  mind, 
A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind. 

"  And  faithful  to  the  act  of  Congress  quoted 
As  law  authority — it  passed  '  nem.  con. ;' 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 

"  That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh, 
And  that  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph. 

And  furthermore,  in  fifty  years  or  sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine, 
And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 

Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zeinbla  to  the  line." 

There  are  somewhere  about  half-a-dozen  more  verses,  but 
they  are  not  written  with  the  poet's  usual  felicity. 

This  inconsistency  of  mood  betrays  itself  in  most  of  Mr. 
Halleck's  productions.  Byron  had  the  power  to  check  this 
feeling.  When  he  wrote  a  Mephistophilean  poem  he  openly 
worked  it  out ;  in  his  serious  productions  he  never  suffered  this 
disturbing,  inharmonious  spirit,  to  appear.  He  was  too  much 
of  an  artist  to  do  this.  But  bis  American  brother  in  verse 
seems  to  be  governed  by  this  mood,  and  not  to  rule  it. 


FITZ-GUEENE      HALLECK.  225 

In  the  verses  to  "  Alnwick  Castle "  we  have  an  instance 
of  this  besetting  sin.  To  be  sure,  the  author  may  turn  round 
and  say  that  he  meant  it  should  assume  this  bantering  tone,  but 
there  is  an  instinct  in  every  reader  which  tells  him  how  far 
such  a  purpose  is  legitimate.  In  "  Beppo  "  and  "  Don  Juan  " 
we  feel  the  whole  work  is  in  keeping,  but  in  "  Alnwick  Castle  " 
we  only  observe  the  poet's  infirmity  of  purpose.  We  feel 
pretty  well  convinced  that  Mr.  Halleck  intended  to  write  a 
serious  heroic  poem,  when  he  commenced  the  lines  in  question, 
but  finding  his  impulse  or  inspiration  dying,  he  resuscitated  it 
by  calling  upon  the  Genius  of  Banter.  Notwithstanding  this 
centaur-like  appearance,  it  possesses  some  fine  stanzas. 

"  Home  of  the  Percies'  high-horn  race, 
Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial-place, 
Their  cradle  and  their  grave. 

"  Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle-gate 
Their  house's  lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours : 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  flout  the  sky 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

"  A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  one  quiet  stream  which  winds 
Through  this  romantic  scene. 

"  As  silently  and  sweetly  still 
As  when  at  evening  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  winds  blow  soft  and  low, 


226  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

Seated  at  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katharine  was  a  happy  bride, 
A  thousand  years  ago. 

"  Gaze  on  the  abbey's  ruined  pile ; 

Does  not  the  succoring  Ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping. 
One  solitary  turret  grey 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 

"  That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 
The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum. 
And  babe  and  sire,  the  old  and  young, 

And  the  manly  hymn  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 
Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 
****** 

After  two  or  three  more  stanzas,  written  in  the  same  spirit, 
the  jeering  fiend  comes  over  Mr.  Halleck,  and  he  breaks  off 
thus : 

"  I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls, 

Trod  by  the  Percies  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel's  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name. 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set, 
Where  now  o'er  mosque  or  minaret 


FITZ- GREENE      HALLECK.  227 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons, 
To  him  who  when  a  younger  son 
Fought  &r  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons !" 

Was  the  temptation  of  rhyming  "  dragoons  "  to  "  moons  " 
too  strong  for  the  poet,  or  did  his  American  indignation,  to  find 
a  Percy  against  the  cause  of  freedom,  in  the  old  war,  dissipate 
the  chivalric  vision? 

When  we  read  this  for  the  first  time,  we  were  under  the 
momentary  impression  that  we  had  got  hold  of,  by  mistake, 
";The  Rejected  Addresses,"  so  like  a  parody  on  Sir  Walter  Scott 
did  the  verses  sound  : 

To  proceed,  however,  with  Mr.  Halleck's  own  account  of  the 
matter,  he  Bays  : 

"  The  last  half  stanza :  it  has  dashed 

From  my  warm  lips  the  sparkling  cup, 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eye-beam  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up, 
Above  this  bank-note  world  is  gone, 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way, 

Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 

Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 
Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line, 

From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 

From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 

From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexam,  and 
Newcastle  upon  Tyne." 


228  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

The  poet  concludes  this  address  to  the  Home  of  the  Percies  : 

«  You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  1 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  the  gentle  Kate, 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men, 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 

A  chambermaid  whose  lip,  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy, 
And  one,  half-groom,  half-seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  the  court,  bower,  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten  and  six  pence  sterling." 

As  a  proof  of  the  fire  with  which  Halleck  treats  a  congenial 
theme,  we  quote  some  verses  from  his  Marco  Bozzaris.  This 
bravfc  warrior  fell  in  an  attack  on  the  Turkish  camp,  during  the 
Grecian  war  for  independence,  in  1823.  The  opening  is  full  of 
spirit  and  beauty. 

"  At  midnight  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent 

Should  tremble  at  his  power. 
In  dreams  through  camp  and  court  he  bore 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror. 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring  ! 
Then  prest  that  monarch's  throne — a  king  ! 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird." 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  229 

As  a  contrast  to  this  supine  security,  the  following  stanza  is 
artistically  brought  in.     It  introduces  the  hero  with  fine  effect : 

"  At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  hand, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drank  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day  : 
And  now  they  breathed  that  haunted  air, 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

"  An  hour  past  on  :  the  Turk  awoke, 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last. 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
*  To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek !  the  Greek !' 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shot,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 
And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast. 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud, 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
Strike  !  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike !  for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike !  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land ! 
They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 
They  filled  the  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 


230  FITZ-GRBENE      H  ALLEGE. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 

His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 
Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave, 

Greece  mustered  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee ;  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  I 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long-loved  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed — 
Her  marble  wrought — her  music  breathed — 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells, 
Of  thee  her  babes  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said, 
At  palace-couch  and  cottage-bed  : 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow. 
Her  plighted  maiden  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young^years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  check 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  hundred  joys, 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  231 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth,  > 

Will  by  their  pilgrim  circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die." 

The  close  of  this  fine  poem  is  worthy  of  Collins.  There  is  a 
slight  want  of  arrangement  in  the  images,  Jbut  they  are  well 
wrought  up.  The  idea  of  his  personal  influence  reaching 
through  the  various  channels  of  action  by  way  of  retribution,  is 
poetically  conceived  and  beautifully  executed. 

The  poem  in  which  Mr.  Halleck  shines  most  brightly  is  that 
"To  Burns."  It  is  not  unwprthy  to  stand  by  the  side  of 
Wordsworth's  on  the  same  subject.  There  is  a  condensation  of 
thought,  and  a  vigorous  simplicity  of  style  in  this  production, 
which  is  not  often  reached  by  a  modern  poet.  They  are  too  fond 
of  elaboration  and  carrying  out  their  idea.  When  this  is  done, 
the  author  has  two  risks  ^ — One  is  that  he  over-refines  and 
wearies  the  reader,  or  presses  him  to  deny  his  aptness  of  selection. 

In  sentimental  and  moralizing  poetry,  we  do  not  think  Mr. 
Halleck  very  successful.  There  is  a  feebleness  of  idea  and 
diction,  which  contrasts  strongly  with  his  poems  on  "Burns" 
and  "  Marco  Bozzaris." 

Twilight  has  been  a  favorite  subject  with  most  bards,  and 
many  have  produced  on  the  mind  that  particular  sensation 
which  may  be  presumed  to  rest  upon  nature  at  that  calm  hour. 
There  is  a  charm  in  the  very  sound  of  the  word,  which  throws 
an  atmosphere  around  us.  Gray  has  produced  a  corresponding 
effect  on  the  reader's  mind  at  the  commencement  of  his  far- 


232  FITK-GREENE      HALLECK. 

famed  Elegy.  Collins,  also,  in  his  matchless  ode  to  "  Evening  " 
has  been  equally  successful.  It  is  a  pleasant  study  to  select 
some  of  the  best  poems  of  these  fine  writers,  and  examine 
how  appropriate  and  suggestive  is  every  epithet  they  employ. 
Collins  is  wonderfully  pure  and  exact.  We  are  aware  that 
many  object  to  Gray's  adjectives  on  account  of  some  ap 
pearing  as  mere  expletives.  We  have  never  perceived  this; 
but,  while  admitting  an  occasional  pedantry  in  a  phrase  or  two, 
we  have  always  admired  his  nicety  of  taste.  Indeed,  the  im 
pression  left  on  our  mind  is  a  fastidiousness  which  is  carried  to 
an  ultra  point. 

Wordsworth,  in  like  manner,  has,  by  a  few  lines,  tin-own  the 
spell  of  poetic  power  over  the  reader's  attention. 

Mr.  Halleck  is,  in  our  opinion,  deficient  in  this  faculty.  There 
is  a  feeling  of  artificiality  about  most  of  his  sentimental  verses, 
having  reference  to  the  outward  aspect  of  nature.  Many  of 
his  epithets  seem  placed  in  after  the  verse  was  written.  They 
do  not  seem  natural,  nor  born  on  the  spot :  they  are  emigrants 
from  some  foreign  thought,  and  not  natives. 

We  will  quote  a  part  of  his  "  Twilight." 

"  There  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion  waves  are  lulled  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 
As  fades  the  day-beam  in  the  rosy  west ! 

1 '  Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 
But  Hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  233 

Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour, 

Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  power." 

"  In  youth  her  cheek  was  crimsoned  with  her  glow ; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  woe 
Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among" 

This  line  is  an  evidence  of  the  poet's  suffering  the  necessity 
of  a  rhyme  to  spoil  a  fine  line.  How  much  better  would  it 
have  read  thus : 

"  Was  all  unheard  among  her  sunny  bowers !" 

A  finished  poet  should  not  suffer  himself  to  be  conquered 
even  in  the  minutiae  of  bis  art. 

"  Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born ; 

We  knew  not — cared  not — it  was  born  to  die ; 
Flushed  with  the  cool  breeze,  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then,  as  fleeting  and  as  few." 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  that  these  were  written  by  the  author 
of  the  former  quotations. 

As  a  proof  of  what  may  be  done  by  a  few  simple  lines,  we 
quote  a  passage  from  Wordsworth's  "  Hartleap  Well." 

"  The  trees  were  grey  with  neither  arms  nor  head ; 

Half  wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
'  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been.' 

"  I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey, 


234  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK, 

It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

"  The  pleasure  house  is  dust ; — behind,  before, 

This  is  no  common  waste — no  common  gloom  ; 
But  nature  in  due  course  of  time  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 

That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known  ; 
But  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

"  One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows  and  what  conceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride, 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 

The  grown  man  and  the  child  must  alike  admire  the  simple 
dignity  of  these  verses.  There  are  a  simplicity  and  power  about 
them  which  convince  all  of  the  presence  of  the  true  poet.  Mr. 
Halleck  would  do  well  to  study  a  simpler  style  in  his  moralizing 
poems.  We  have  been  disappointed  that  he  has  not  attempted 
the  lighter,  gayer  kind  of  lyric,  the  song.  From  one  or  two 
parodies  in  "  Fanny,"  and  from  the  spirit  of  most  of  his  poetry, 
we  feel  assured  he  would  have  been  eminently  successful  in  this 
charming  department  of  the  Muses.  While  we  are  on  the 
subject  of  songs,  we  cannot  help  paying  a  tribute  of  admiration 
to  the  compositions  of  General  Morris.  They  are  the  most 
delightful  of  modern  chansons.  As  we  shall  treat  of  him  more 
at  length  in  our  next  volume,  we  hope  to  confirm  our  hasty 
eulogium  here  expressed  by  appropriate  passages. 


FITZ-GREENE      H  ALLEGE.  235 

Having  alluded  to  the  poem  on  Burns,  we  offer  a  few  verses 
to  illustrate  the  peculiarities  of  Mr.  Halleck's  style  of  compo 
sition. 

We  shall  select  a  few  stanzas  written  with  a  vigor  worthy  of 
the  great  Scotchman. 

"  The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls — when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

"  A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot ;  she's  canonized  his  mind  : 
And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 

We  may  of  human  kind. 

***** 

"  His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek. 
***** 

"  What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 
When  '  Scots  wha  hae  with  Wallace  bled,' 

Or  *  Auld  Lang  Syne'  is  sung ! 
***** 

"  And  when  he  breathes  his  master  lay, 

Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 
All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay, 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

"  Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 


236  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

Wit,  pathos,  poetry  are  there, 
And  death's  sublimity." 

It  is  cheering  to  find  a  poet  speak  boldly  of  a  fellow  bard, 
even  though  he  was  not  the  pattern  of  a  man  "  after  a  bishop's 
own  heart." 

"  And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 

Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 
Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  man, 

The  image  of  his  God ! 

***** 
"  Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave. 

***** 

"  Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 

Like  flower  seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 
Where'er  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

"  Praise  to  the  man ! — a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave— her  beautiful— her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 
***** 

"  Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shrines, 

Shrines  to  no  creed  or  code  confined, 
The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Mecca's  of  the  mind." 

We  are  afraid  that  the  pharisees  of  this  republic,  like  their 
fellow  hypocrites  of  the  Old  Country,  have  no  more  faVh  in 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  237 

truth,  or  reverence  for  poets  or  prophets,  than  had  their  Jewish 
forefathers,  who  cried  out,  "  Crucify  him," — "  Release  unto  us 
Barabbas," — more  especially  if  the  modern  Barabbas  were  a 
millionaire. 

It  is  seldom  that  a  modern  touches  the  Latin  harp  with  any 
degree  of  success.  We  were  therefore  agreeably  surprised  with 
Halleck's  verses  to  the  Field  of  Grounded  Arms. 

*  Strangers  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 
Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 

When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 
The  spirit  world  of  dreams ! 

"  True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness ;  the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first-born  hours, 
Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 
Are  welcoming  the  morn." 

The  next  verse  is  very  sweet,  notwithstanding  a  kind  of  halt 
in  the  first  line. 

"  The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee — the  music  wild 
Of  waves  upon  the  bank, 
Of  leaves  upon  the  bough." 

Such  is  the  prejudice  of  custom  that  a  critic  of  some  classical 
taste  refused  to  allow  any  merit  to  this  poem,  and  quoted  with 
great  energy  Horace's  ode  : 

"  Quis  multa  gracilis  te  puer  in  ros&, 
Perfusus  liquidis  urget  odoribus 

Grata  Pyrrha  sub  antro  ? 

Cui  flavam  religas  comam 
Simplex  munditiis ! — " 


238  FJTZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

The  author  of  "  Paracelsus  "  had  a  favorite  theory  to  account 
for  the  slowness  with  which  contemporaries  acknowledge  the 
merit  of  any  superior  mind.  He  declared  his  firm  conviction, 
that  it  partly  rose  from  envy  and  partly  from  the  meanness  of 
the  masses,  who  could  not  realize  the  fact  of  a  schoolfellow  or 
companion  rising  so  much  above  themselves.  When,  however, 
the  man  is  too  great  for  any  doubt,  then  the  acquaintances 
applaud  the  decision  to  the  very  echo,  in  order  to  elevate 
themselves  into  a  spurious  vain-glory,  as  they  to  a  certain 
extent  share  his  feme,  being  his  intimates.  These  self-satisfied 
toadies  are  to  a  man  of  genius  most  terrible  and  deadly  ene 
mies  :  they  deal  in  dark  inuendoes,  and  spit  their  venom  on  all 
who  are  above  them. 

To  return  to  Halleck. 

"  But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
Beneath  her  skies  of  June;  then  journey  on, 
A  thousand  scenes  like  this 
Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve." 
*  *  * 

These  lines  are  lull  offeree  and  pith : 

"  Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot ; 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth ; 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve ; 

Land  of  his  children — vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders  !— vain  your  battle's  steel  and  fire, 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom — 

A  prison  or  a  grave  !" 

As  an  instance  of  Mr.  Halleck's  incongruities,  we  quote  a 
characteristic  stanza  from  another  of  his  poems  : 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  239 

"  Youth's  coffin  !  hush,  the  tale  it  tells, 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells ! 
Lone  in  one  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells 

Untold  till  death, 
And  where  the  grave  mound  greenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith." 

After  two  more  verses,  alluding  to  the  revolutions  in  em 
pires,  we  come  to  this  finale  : 

"  Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown, 

A  brickbat's  range : 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown, 
Five  shillings  change !" 

Surely,  it  is  unworthy  to  mar  a  fine  subject  by  such  an  old 
joke.  It  scarcely  seems  credible  that  so  poor  a  verse  could 
have  slipped  in  even  by  accident. 

These  are  sweetly  said  : 

"  A  poet's  daughter — dearer  word 
Lip  hath  not  spoke,  nor  listener  heard ; 
Fit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird, 

From  morn  till  even, 
And  wind  harp  by  the  breathing  stirred 

Of  star-lit  heaven. 

"  My  spirit's  wings  are  weak — the  fire 
Poetic  comes  but  to  expire  ; 
Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live : 

She  hath  already  from  her  sire 
All  bard  can  give." 


240  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

The  whole  of  the  poem  from  which  we  have  quoted  these 
lines  is  very  peculiar,  and  shows  how  very  small  a  temptation  it 
takes  to  lead  our  poet  astray. 

We  shall  give  a  few  specimens  from  his  longest  poem,  but 
by  no  means  his  most  successful.  It  is  certainly  a  light  and 
graceful  collection  of  pleasantly  expressed  odds  and  ends  of 
thought,  but  its  entire  want  of  story  is  fatal. 

"  I've  felt  full  many  a  heartache  in  my  day, 
At  the  mere  rustling  of  a  muslin  gown, 
And  caught  some  dreadful  colds,  I  blush  to  say, 

While  shivering  in  the  shade  of  beauty's  frown, 
They  say  her  smiles  are  sunbeams — it  may  be — 
But  never  a  sunbeam  would  she  throw  on  me. 
***** 

"  Her  father  kept,  some  fifteen  years  ago, 

A  retail  dry  good  shop  in  Chatham  street, 
And  nursed  his  little  earnings,  sure  though  slow, 

Till  having  mustered  wherewithal  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  the  great  world — he  breathed  the  air 
Of  Pearl  street,  and  set  up  in  Hanover  square. 

"  Money  is  power — 't  is  said — I  never  tried ; 

I  'm  but  a  poet — and  bank-notes  to  me 
Are  curiosities,  as  closely  eyed, 

Whene'er  I  get  them,  as  a  stone  would  be 
Passed  from  the  moon,  on  Dr.  Mitchell's  table, 
Or  classic  brickbat  from  the  tower  of  Babel !" 

The  sudden  investment  of  wit  which  the  crowd  discover  in  a 
wealthy  man  is  well  described. 

"  — brilliant  traits  of  mind, 
And  genius,  clear  and  countless  as  the  dies 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  241 

Upon  the  peacock's  plumage  ;  taste  refined, 
Wisdom  and  wit  were  his — perhaps  much  more. 
'T  was  strange  they  had  not  found  it  out  before !" 

There  is  always,  however,  something  to  be  said  on  the  wrong 
as  well  as  on  the  right  side  of  the  question,  and  there  is  a 
foundation  of  truth  for  every  prejudice,  nay,  for  even  every 
error.  The  world  is  a  shrewd  beast,  and  knows  well  that  a 
poor  man  who  raises  himself  to  wealth  has  some  faculties  in 
him  superior  to  them.  It  is  not  because  the  man  is  rich  that 
they  listen,  it  is  because  they  feel  he  knows  more  than  they  do. 
Before  he  achieved  his  wealth  they  knew  not  his  power.  He 
rises  to  a  loftier  station,  and  consequently  has  earned  the  right 
to  speak,  and  to  be  listened  to  with  attention. 

We  do  not  make  this  defence  out  of  any  affection  for  the 
opinion  of  a  rich  man  per  se,  but  out  of  a  desire  that  every 
question  should  be  fairly  tested. 

It  may,  certainly,  on  the  other  hand  be  argued,  that  the  pos 
session  of  the  wealth  had  no  real  influence  on  the  man's  intel 
lect,  and  that  his  remarks  must  have  been  as  brilliant  before  his 
money-making  as  after ;  but  even  here  it  may  be  said,  "  that 
nothing  gives  one  so  much  confidence  as  gold,  and  nothing 
allows  a  freer  play  for  the  mind  than  confidence."  We  will 
illustrate  this  by  an  anecdote  we  were  told  the  other  evening, 
by  a  clergyman  whose  knowledge  of  human  nature  is  more  ex 
tensive  than  generally  falls  to  that  class. 

A  poor  parson  was  in  the  habit  every  Saturday  of  borrowing 
of  a  friend  a  five  dollar  note ;  this  was  invariably  returned,  with 
wonderful  punctuality,  early  every  Monday  morning.  What 
astonished  the  lender  more  than  all,  was,  the  singular  fact,  that 


242  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

he  was  always  repaid  in  the  very  same  bill  lie  lent.  Being  a 
very  curious  man,  this  puzzled  him  amazingly.  He  felt  sure 
that  the  parson  could  not  want  the  money  for  household  ex 
penses,  because  the  note  was  never  changed.  After  a  time,  he 
resolved  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  begging  for  an  expla 
nation  of  so  unaccountable  a  proceeding.  Shortly  after,  the 
parson  himself  came  on  Saturday  evening,  and  asked  for  the 
loan  of  a  ten  dollar  note.  His  friend  seized  the  opportunity  of 
demanding  the  solution  of  the  mystery.  After  a  pause,  the 
borrower  said :  "  You  must  know,  my  dear  Smith,  that  my  in 
come  is  so  small  that  I  never  have  at  the  end  of  the  week  one 
cent  I  can  call  my  own.  Now,  some  cannot  preach  or  pray  on 
an  empty  stomach :  I  am  one  who  cannot  do  so  on  an  empty 
pocket.  When  I  have  nothing  in  them  I  feel  a  poor,  miserable 
devil,  and  afraid  to  look  my  congregation  in  the  face,  much  less 
to  denounce  their  wickedness  ;  but  with  a  five  dollar  bill  in  my 
pocket,  I  feel  a  man  and  a  Christian,  and  I  preach  with  great 
eloquence  and  force.  Now,  as  the  President  is  coming  to 
hear  me  to-morrow,  I  intend  to  try  the  effect  of  the  double 
money  power,  and  I  shall  feel  obliged  by  your  lending  me  a 
ten  dollar  bill  to  put  in  my  pocket  for  this  grand  occasion !" 

Absurd  as  this  sounds  when  reduced  to  a  confession,  it  is  the 
undoubted  truth,  and  is  the  foundation  of  every  rich  man's 
arrogance,  and  every  poor  man's  despondency. 

Despite  the  desultory  writing  of  this  poem,  there  are  scat 
tered  here  and  there  some  beautiful  thoughts,  tenderly  ex 
pressed. 

"  There  are  some  happy  moments  in  this  lone 
And  desolate  world  of  ours,  that  well  repay 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  243 

The  toil  of  struggling  through  it — and  atone 

For  many  a  long,  sad  night,  and  weary  day. 
They  come  upon  the  mind  like  some  wild  air 
Of  distant  music,  when  we  know  not  where, 

"  Or  whence,  the  sounds  are  brought  from,  and  their  power, 

Though  brief,  is  boundless.     That  far,  future  home, 
Oft  dreamed  of,  beckons  near — its  rose-wreathed  bower, 

And  cloudless  skies  before  us.     We  become 
Changed  in  an  instant — all  gold  leaf  and  gilding. 
This  is,  in  vulgar  phrase,  called  '  castle  building.'  " 

Now  and  then  he  lias  a  sly  hit  at  a  brother  author  : 

"  Dear  to  the  exile  is  his  native  land, 

In  memory's  twilight  beauty  seen  afar : 
Dear  to  the  broker  is  a  note  of  hand 

Collaterally  secured — the  polar  star 
Is  dear  at  midnight  to  the  sailor's  eyes, 
And  dear  are  Bristed's  volumes  at  half  price. 
***** 

"  Brokers  of  all  grades — stock  and  farm — and  Jews 

Of  all  religions,  who  at  noonday  form 
On  'Change,  that  brotherhood  the  moral  muse 

Delights  in,  when  the  heart  is  pure  and  warm, 
And  each  exerts  his  intellectual  force 
To  cheat  his  neighbor — legally  of  course. 
***** 

— for  many  bosom  friends,  it  seems, 
Did  borrow  of  him,  and  sometimes  forget 
To  pay — indeed,  they  have  not  paid  him  yet. 

"  But  these  he  deemed  as  trifles — when  each  mouth 
Was  open  in  his  praise,  and  plaudits  rose 


244  FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK. 

Upon  his  willing  ear,  like  the  sweet  south 

Upon  a  bank  of  violets,  from  those 
Who  knew  his  talent,  riches,  and  so  forth ; 
That  is,  knew  how  much  money  he  was  worth  !" 

Moore  himself  must  smile  at  the  parody  on  his  well  known 
song  of 

"  There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
but  the  American  poet's 

"  There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall," 

is  too  well  known  to  need  quoting.  It  is  certainly  a  capital 
specimen  of  that  species  of  verse.  Mr.  Halleck  sometimes 
makes  the  same  sound  rhyme  a  couplet.  In  the  course  of 
a  few  stanzas  we  meet  with  these  : 

xciv. 

"  And  never  has  a  summer  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high,  &c. 

xcv. 

"  He  can  hear 
The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear,  &c. 

xcvm. 

«  When  life  is  old 
And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold"  &c. 

The  poem  concludes   with   the   failure   of    Fanny's  father. 
The  following  stanza  is  one  of  the  last. 

"  Some  evenings  since  he  took  a  lonely  stroll 

Along  Broadway,  scene  of  past  joys  and  evils, 


FITZ-GREENE      HALLECK.  245 

He  felt  that  withering  bitterness  of  soul 

Quaintly  denominated  the  'blue  devils,' 
And  thought  of  Bonaparte  and  Belisarius, 
Pompey,  and  Colonel  Burr,  and  Caius  Harms." 


So  ends  Halleck's  longest  production.  There  is  much  fine 
•oetical  thought  in  it,  elegant  versification,  and  an  occasional 
inexpectedness  of  "  rhyme  and  reason,"  but  the  author  lacks 
hat  range  of  the  pathetic  and  the  humorous  which  rendered 
Jyron  the  most  characteristic  poet  of  the  present  age.  Don 
uan  is  the  undoubted  modern  epic.  The  want  of  earnestness 
f  the  times  is  admirably  mirrored  in  that  wonderful  poem, 
lalf  jest,  half  superstition,  the  world's  face  is  there  seen  in  all 
8  incongruous  phases.  The  mixed  and  uncertain  state  of  the 
,uman  mind  had  its  epitome  in  Byron.  Capable  of  the 
lightiest  and  the  meanest  actions,  and  often  performing  them 
rell  nigh  together,  the  gloomy,  infidel,  devotional  poet  was  the 
erfect  representative  of  his  age.  It  is  this  wonderful  mobility 
f  character  which  has  made  him  the  most  popular  writer 
ince  Shakspeare.  He  has  an  aspect  for  all  classes  of  men.  In 
is  earlier  efforts  we  behold  the  boy  imitating  his  favorite 
uthors.  An  insult  roused  him,  and  he  rushed,  under  the  inspi- 
ation  of  rage,  into  a  field  where  he  felt  his  strength.  He  then 
.new  his  power,  and  worked  out,  as  caprice  or  accident  prompted, 
is  mighty  poetical  nature.  The  chivalric  and  romantic,  the 
•athetic,  the  humorous,  the  satirical  and  supernatural,  the 
gloomy  pastoral  and  the  historical  or  traditional,  all  were  suc- 
essfully  thrown  before  the  public,  in  different  poems.  At  last, 

11 


246  FITZ-GREENE     HALLECK. 

by  a  singular  effort,  his  last  poem  combined  all  these  elements, 
and  therefore  Don  Juan  will  always  be  the  completest  repre 
sentation  of  a  poet's  idiosyncrasy  ever  revealed  to  his  fellow  men. 
In  this  many-sidedness  Byron  holds  supreme  dominion  over  his 
contemporaries.  Wordsworth  surpasses  him  in  the  intensity  of 
his  worship  of  nature.  Moore,  in  his  playful  elaboration  of 
metaphors,  conventional  elegances,  and  finely-edged  wit.  Scott, 
in  the  range  of  human  character ;  although  the  objectivity  of  the 
novelist,  and  the  subjectivity  of  the  poet,  render  them  perhaps 
unfit  parallels.  But  in  adaptability  to  the  masses,  as  existing 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  no  poet  has  so  completely  taken  their 
nature  upon  him  as  the  author  of  Don  Juan.  Even  "  Childe 
Harold,"  gloomy  and  subjective  as  it  is,  becomes  a  phase  of 
the  human  mind,  as  shadowed  in  the  present  age,  and  has  its 
root  as  much  in  the  world  as  in  the  poet's  heart.  We  make 
these  remarks  to  show  why  we  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Halleck 
is  the  Byron  of  America.  One  half  of  his  poetical  labors  is  an 
imitation  of  the  noble  poet's  greatest  work.  Materials  for  a 
poem  of  this  description  are  not  to  be  found  in  a  young  repub 
lic;  the  magazine  is  in  ancient  monarchies.  Time  is  a  vast 
storehouse  of  absurdity,  solemnities,  sorrows,  and  jests.  This  is 
the  gamut  of  human  nature,  and  it  requires  centuries  to  learn 
its  science  of  harmony. 

We  conclude  our  notice  of  Halleck  by  assuring  him  that  the 
Anglo-Saxons  will  expect  finer  poems  than  he  has  yet  produced  j 
it  is  in  him,  we  know,  for  has  he  not  revealed  some  of  his- 
powers  by  such  lines  as  these  ?  They  come  forth  to  the  outert 
world  just  as  a  strain  of  melody  bursts  from  a  banquet  hallr 


FITZ-GREENE     HALLECK.  247 

where  high  revel  is  held,  when  the  door  is  opened  to  admit 
some  favored  guest. 

"  Strike— till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  : 
Strike — for  your  altars,  and  your  fires; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 
God,  and  your  native  land !" 


248  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 


KICHARD    HENRY    DANA. 


THERE  are  a  simplicity  and  individuality  about  Dana's  writ 
ings,  which  give  him  the  decided  impress  of  being  a  man  of 
more  originality  than  he  really  possesses. 

There  is  less  reliance  upon  foreign  sources  for  his  subjects ; 
he  likewise  treats  them  in  a  manner  of  his  own,  which  compels 
the  reader  to  respect  him  for  his  intention,  if  he  cannot  applaud 
him  for  the  successful  result  of  his  experiment. 

We  shall  treat  of  his  poems  first,  and  then  consider  him  as  a 
lecturer  and  essayist. 

He  is  well  known  to  the  public  as  the  author  of  the  "  Buc 
caneer,"  a  poem  of  great  merit,  and  full  of  fine  thoughts,  simply 
and  forcibly  described. 

His  portrait  of  the  freebooter  himself  is  drawn  with  a  vigor 
ous  pencil.  There  is  a  total  absence  of  all  tawdry  or  adven 
titious  embellishments  in  this  old  poet's  verse,  which  stands  out 
in  bold  relief  to  the  artificial  elegances  and  cuckoo-note  tracks  of 
many  modern  and  fashionable  authors. 

"  Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  Lee 
Held  in  this  isle  unquestioned  sway ; 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  249 

A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  was  he ; 

His  law, — '  It  is  my  way  !' 
Beneath  his  thickset  brows  a  sharp  light  broke 
From  small  grey  eyes :  his  laugh  a  triumph  spoke." 

This  is  a  bold  Roman  kind  of  verse,  which  at  once  tells  upon 
the  reader.  It  somewhere  or  other  strongly  reminds  us  of 
Wordsworth's  opening  stanza  of  "  Rob  Roy  :" 

"  A  famous  man  was  Robin  Hood, 

The  English  ballad-singer's  joy ; 
But  Scotland  boasts  a  man  as  good, 
It  is  her  bold  Rob  Roy." 
*  *  * 

And  shortly  after  come  these  lines  : 

"  The  good  old  rule,  the  simple  plan, 

That  they  shall  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  shall  keep  who  can." 

These  coincidences  are,  however,  unavoidable  in  poetry  when 
they  partake  of  the  same  peculiar  nature,  and  many  of  Dana's 
simple,  manly  productions,  remind  us  of  the  poet-laureate's. 

The  American  writer  dashes  off  with  a  few  vigorous  touches 
a  graphic  picture  of  the  old  Buccaneer. 

"  Cruel  of  heart,  and  strong  of  arm ; 

Loud  in  his  sport,  and  keen  far  spoil, 
He  little  recked  of  good  or  harm, — 

Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil. 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were ; 
Speak  mildly  when  he  would,  or  look  in  fear !" 

Of  another  order   in  poetry,  we   quote  some  verses  which 


250  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

show  the  old  poet's  strength  of  hand  in  painting  the  sea ;  it  is 
very  suggestive  to  remark  how  the  nature  of  the  writer  comes 
out  in  describing  the  same  object.  Byron,  Cooper,  and  Dana, 
of  moderns,  have  been  successful  in  interesting  the  reader  in  the 
glorious  old  ocean.  How  differently,  yet  the  same  !  The  quiet 
simplicity  of  Dana  is  shown  in  these  lines : 

"  But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy  heaving  sea, 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently. 
How  beautiful !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  strong  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach." 

***** 

Observe  how  little  the  subjective  part  of  imagination  is  called 
into  play  here  ;  only  one  incidental  allusion  of  a  remote  kind  in 
the  ejaculation,  "  how  beautiful !"  All  is  pure  outside  descrip 
tion,  simply  and  faithfully  rendered. 

"  'T  is  fearful !  on  the  broad-backed  waves, 

To  feel  them  shake,  and  hear  them  roar, 
Beneath,  unsounded,  dreadful  caves, 

Around,  no  cheerful  shore. 

Yet  'mid  this  solemn  world  what  deeds  are  done  ! 
The  curse  goes  up,  the  deadly  sea-fight's  won. 
***** 

The  ship  works  hard ;  the  sea  runs  high ; 

Their  white  tops  flashing  through  the  night, 
Give  to  the  eager  straining  eye, 

A  wild  and  shifting  light. 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  261 

On  pale  dead  men,  on  burning  cheek, 
On  quick,  fierce  eyes,  brows  hot  and  damp, 

On  hands  that  with  the  warm  blood  reek, 
Shines  the  dim  cabin  lamp  ! 
*  *  * 

As  swung  the  sea  with  heavy  beat, 

Below,  and  hear  it  break 

With  savage  roar,  then  pause  and  gather  strength, 

And  then  come  tumbling  in  its  swollen  length." 

All  this  is  literal,  external  painting.  The  two  last  lines  are 
powerful ;  for,  although  the  word  "  tumbling "  is  not  very 
heroic,  yet  it  is  to  a  certain  extent  appropriately  used  in 
describing  the  mammoth  rolling  of  the  billows  ]  nevertheless, 
there  is  a  clumsiness  about  the  word  we  do  not  like  in  con 
nexion  with  the  mighty  ocean.  There  is  a  Titan  march  in  the 
sea's  movements  which  demands  a  word  for  itself. 

"  A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees  ! 

Whirling  and  dark  comes  roaring  down 
A  tide  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown : 
A  field  and  vineyard,  thick  and  red  it  stood, 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  wet  with  blood !" 

There  is  a  sternness  about  this  poem,  indeed  about  all  his 
poetry,  which  deducts  materially  from  the  delights  we  gene 
rally  feel  in  reading  strong  bold  verse.  To  a  certain  extent, 
Dana  reminds  us  of  Crabbe.  He,  however,  as  certainly  excels 
the  English  poet  in  dignity  of  treatment,  as  he  falls  below  him 
in  those  minute  descriptions  which  so  frequently  give  to  Crabbe's 
poems  the  air  of  condensed  prose  placed  in  lines  of  equal 


252 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 


length,   the     two     last    syllables     of    which   are     forced     to 
rhyme. 

Occasionally  there  are  touches  of  great  beauty  and  tender 
ness,  which  show  that  the  poet  can  bring  the  tear  as  well  as 
move  respect. 

"  Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young  fair  bride, 

The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 
That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride ; 

He  cannot  hear  thy  wail, 

Whom  thou  didst  lull  with  fondly  murmured  sound, 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 

"  He  fell  for  Spain — her  Spain  no  more, 
For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear; 
And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore, 

Away  from  strife  and  fear ; 
And  wait  amid  her  sorrows  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away." 

The  Buccaneer  persuades  her  to  embark  on  board  his  vessel. 

"  With  wealth  and  servants  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  that  white  steed  she  rode  beside  her  lord, 

"  The  sun  goes  down  upon  the  sea, 

The  shadows  gather  round  her  home  ; 
How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me, 
My  home  how  like  a  tomb  ! 
O  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head, 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 

We  are  perpetually  reminded,  by  every  quotation,  how 
ill-adapted  for  a  sustained  narrative  is  the  stanza  employed  by 
Dana  for  this,  the  longest  of  his  poems. 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  253 

A  similar  error  in  judgment  has  been  shown  by  Halleck  in 
his  "Fanny." 

"  Sleep — sleep,  thou  sad  one  of  the  sea ! 
The  wash  of  waters  tells  thee  now 
His  arm  will  no  more  pillow  thee, 

Thy  fingers  on  his  brow. 
He  is  not  near  to  hush  thee  or  to  save, 
The  ground  is  his,  the  sea  must  be  thy  grave." 

The  author  thus  violates  the  great  rule  of  narrative  compo 
sition,  by  here  anticipating  her  fate. 

The  pirates'  intention  of  murdering  the  helpless  lady  is 
graphically  portrayed. 

"  Mourn  for  the  living ;  mourn  our  sins. 

The  wrath  of  man  more  fierce  than  thine  ; 
Hark — still  thy  waves — the  work  begins, 

Lee  makes  the  deadly  sign ; 
The  crew  glide  down  like  shadows,  eye  and  hand 
Speak  fearful  meanings  through  the  silent  band." 

The  fate  of  the  fair  lady  is  told  admirably.  A  rapid  sketch, 
and  the  whole  is  palpably  presented,  as  a  lightning  flash  bares 
the  scenery  for  an  instant,  and  then  all  is  dark  again. 

"  A  crash  !  they  force  the  door,  and  then 

One  long — long  shrill  and  piercing  scream 
Comes  thrilling  'hove  the  growl  of  men. 
Tis  hers  !  O  God,  redeem 

From  worse  than  death  thy  suffering  helpless  child ! 

That  dreadful  shriek  again,  sharp,  sharp,  and  wild. 

"  It  ceased,  with  speed  o'  th'  lightning's  flash, 
A  loose  robed  form,  with  streaming  hair, 
11* 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

Shoots  by.     A  leap — a  quick,  short  splash ! 

'Tis  gone — and  nothing  there. 
The  waves  have  swept  away  the  bubbling  tide, 
Bright,  crested  waves,  how  calmly  on  they  ride. 

"  Her  home  of  love 

She  soon  has  reached ;  fair,  unpolluted  thing, 
They  harmed  her  not ;  was  dying  suffering  ?" 

This  poem  is,  however,  spoilt  by  its  improbable  catastrophe. 
There  is  a  mixture  of  the  terrible  and  the  absurd,  which  pro 
duces  an  equivocal  result  altogether  destructive  of  the  true  pur 
pose  of  poetry. 

The  drowned  horse  rises  from  the  sea  and  seeks  the  bucca 
neers  at  the  anniversary  revel  of  their  murderous  exploit. 
Compelled  by  a  supernatural  power,  the  wretched  pirate, 
Matthew  Lee,  is  forced  to  stride  the  spectre  horse. 

"  Borne  by  an  unseen  power  right  on  he  rides, 
Yet  touches  not  the  shadow  beast  he  strides. 

"  He  goes  with  speed,  he  goes  with  dread  ! 
And  now  they're  on  the  hanging  steep  ! 
And  now  the  living  and  the  dead, 

They'll  make  the  horrid  leap. 
The  horse  stops  short — his  feet  are  on  the  verge  : 
He  stands  like  marble  high  above  the  surge." 

With  a  true  poet's  soul,  in  the  midst  of  this  human  agony, 
Dana  brings  in  the  contradictory,  yet  consoling  beauty  of 
nature,  to  relieve  the  horror. 

"  Thou  mild — sad  mother — silent  moon, 
Thy  last,  low  melancholy  ray, 


RICHARD      HENRY     DANA.  255 

Shines  towards  him  :  quit  him  not  so  soon ! 

Mother,  in  mercy  stay  ! 

Despair  and  death  are  with  him,  and  canst  thou, 
With  that  kind  earthward  look,  go  leave  him  now ! 

"  O !  thou  wast  born  for  worlds  of  love ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 
Whate'er  thou  lookest  on  ;  hosts  above 

In  that  soft  light  of  thine 

Burn  softer ;  earth,  in  silvery  veil  seems  heaven. 
Thou'st  going  down — hast  left  him  unforgiven !" 

There  is  a  similar  instance  of  throwing  the  accent  from  the 
man  to  the  moon,  if  we  may  be  allowed  such  an  expression,  in 
a  poem  of  Byron's.     We  think  it  is  in  the  "  Siege  of  Corinth," 
when  the  renegade  is  compelled  to  decide  on  a  momentous 
question,  before  a  thin  filmy  cloud  has  reached  the  moon. 
"  There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon, 
'T  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon,"  &c. 

Dana  has  shown  great  power  in  this  recognition  of  a 
wretch's  mute  appeal  to  creation  for  sympathy  and  support. 
We  were  told  by  a  man  of  great  imagination,  who  had  been 
confined  in  a  lunatic  asylum  against  his  will,  that  he  often 
gazed  on  the  moon,  and  endeavored  to  throw  his  whole  soul 
into  the  look  he  gave  it,  that  it  might  produce  a  sympathetic 
effect  upon  his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached,  and 
who  was  ignorant  of  his  durance.  It  has  been  well  said  by  a 
modern  writer,  that  physical  assassinations  have  gone  out  of 
fashion,  and  that  lunatic  asylums  have  been  substituted.  Our 
experience  is  able  to  confirm  this  opinion.  Let  us  turn  from 
lunacy  to  poetry. 


266  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

"  The  spectre  steed  now  slowly  pales, 

Now  changes  like  the  moon-lit  cloud ; 
That  cold,  thin  light,  now  slowly  fails 

Which  wrapt  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  shore  are  fading  into  air, 
Lost,  mazed,  alone,  see,  Lee  is  standing  there. 

***** 

"  For  he's  accursed  from  all  that's  good ; 

He  ne'er  must  know  its  healing  power. 
The  sinner  on  his  sin  shall  brood, 

And  wait  alone  his  hour. 
A  stranger  to  earth's  beauty,  human  love — 
No  rest  for  him  below — no  hope  above !" 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  told  with  equal  power :  the  effect  of 
the  whole  being  somewhat  spoiled  by  the  supernatural  nature 
of  the  denouement.  In  one  sense,  we  may  conclude  it  is 
merely  a  mental  power,  under  which  the  guilty  hero  passes, 
and  which  leaves  him  despoiled  of  reason.  If  this  be  the  poet's 
intention,  he  has  not  achieved  his  object  with  any  skill. 

These  verses  have  a  sweet  musical  effect : 

"  And  now  the  mist  seems  taking  shape, 

Forming  a  dim,  gigantic  ghost, — 
Enormous  thing !     There's  no  escape, 

'T  is  close  upon  the  coast. 

Lee  kneels,  but  cannot  pray — why  mock  him  so  ? 
The  ship  has  cleared  the  fog — Lee,  let  her  go ! 

"  A  sweet,  low  voice,  in  starry  nights, 
Chants  to  his  ear  a  plaining  song ; 
Its  tones  come  winding  up  the  heights, 


RICHARD      HENRY     DANA.  257 

Telling  of  woe  and  wrong : 
And  he  must  listen  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
The  song  that  gentle  voice  doth  sing  to  him, 

"  O,  it  is  sad  that  aught  so  mild 

Should  bind  the  soul  with  bands  of  fear ; 
That  strains  to  soothe  a  little  child, 

The  man  should  dread  to  hear ! 

But  sin  hath  broke  the  world's  sweet  peace — unstrung 
The  harmonious  chords  to  which  the  angels  sung. 

As  we  said  before,  the  defect  in  this  poem  is  the  mixed  feel 
ings  roused  by  the  perusal.  If  the  events  described  as  being 
the  consequences  of  the  murder  are  physical  actions,  the  story 
is  so  improbable  and  out  of  nature  as  to  do  away  with  it  alto 
gether  as  a  work  of  art.  If  the  agonies  endured  by  Lee  are 
mental  processes,  by  a  diseased  imagination  worked  on  by 
remorse,  then  we  feel  bound  to  say  that  the  poet  has  lament 
ably  failed  in  the  execution  of  his  design.  Taking  it,  however, 
as  it  now  stands,  it  is  a  collection  of  verses  powerfully  sketched, 
but  deficient  in  that  probability  of  story  which  alone  can  lend 
a  truthfulness  to  it. 

In  the  "  Changes  of  Home  "  we  recognise  a  greater  consist 
ency  of  purpose,  while  the  execution  is  less  vivid ;  the  lines  are 
musical  and  clear,  though  displaying  little  imagination.  This 
poem  has,  however,  more  tenderness  than  any  of  his  works. 

"  Yet  there  was  one  true  heart — that  heart  was  thine, 
Fond  Emmeline  !  and  every  beat  was  mine. 
It  stopt.     That  stillness !     Up  it  rose  and  spread 
Above  me,  awing,  vast,  strange,  living — dead !     . 
No  feeble  grief  that  sobs  itself  to  rest, — 


258  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

Benumbing  grief,  and  sorrows  filled  my  breast : 
Dark  death,  and  sorrow  dark,  and  terror  blind, — 
They  made  my  soul  to  quail,  they  shook  my  mind, 

Wild  rushings  passed  me  as  of  driving  wind. 
***** 

There  stands  my  home — no  more  my  home ;  and  they 

Who  loved  me  so — they  too  have  passed  away. 

The  sun  lies  on  the  door  sill,  where  my  book 

I  daily  read,  and  fitted  line  and  hook, 

And  shaped  my  bow ;  or  dreamed  myself  a  knight 

By  lady  loved,  by  champion  feared  in  fight." 
***** 

The  following  reminds  us  strongly  of  Crabbe  1 
"  But  he,  their  son  ? — They  had  a  son,  you  said  ? 

"  A  rich  relation  saw  the  boy  had  mind, 
Such  minds  a  market  in  the  world  must  find, 
So  said  he — and  the  boy  must  learning  have, 
For  learning,  power,  and  wealth,  and  honors  gave. 
Mind  and  a  market !     Will  he  sell  the  child, 
As  slaves  are  sold  ?  they  ask.     The  uncle  smiled. 
And  does  not  Nathan  teach  to  read  and  write, 
To  spell  and  cipher  ?  letters  to  indite  ? 
What's  learning,  then,  that  he  must  needs  go  seek 
So  far  from  home  ?     They  call  it  Latin,  Greek. 
Wisely  all  further  question  they  forbore, 
And  looked  profound,  though  puzzled  as  before." 

The   next   quotation   seems   like  a  page  from    Goldsmith's 
"  Deserted  Village." 

"  Low  were  the  words  at  our  repast,  and  few  ; 
Each  felt  the  silence  to  the  other  due. 


RICHARD      HENRY     DANA.  259 

At  length  upon  our  thoughtful  minds  there  stole 
Converse  that  gently  won  the  saddened  soul." 
***** 

"  We  reached  a  shop :  no  lettered  sign  displayed 
The  owner's  name,  or  told  the  world  his  trade. 
But  on  its  door,  cracked,  rusty  hinges  swung, 
And  there  a  hook,  and  well-worn  horseshoe  hung. 
The  trough  was  dry ;  the  bellows  gave  no  blast ; 
The  hearth  was  cold,  nor  sparks  flew  red  and  fast : 
Labor's  strong  arm  had  rested — where  was  he, 
Brawny  and  bare,  who  toiled  and  sang  so  free  ?" 
***** 

The  following  scene  is  beautifully  told. 

"  The  village  passed,  we  came  where  stood  aloof, 
An  aged  cot  with  low  and  broken  roof. 
The  sun  upon  its  walls  in  quiet  slept ; 
Close  by  the  door  the  stream  in  silence  crept ; 
No  rustling  birds  were  heard  among  the  trees, 
That  high  and  silent  stood,  as  slept  the  breeze. 
The  cot  wide  open ;  yet  there  came  no  sound 
Of  busy  steps  ;  't  was  all  in  stillness  bound. 
Solemn,  yet  lovely  stillness,  as  a  spell 
On  this  sweet  rest  and  mellow  sunshine  fell .'" 

If  we  were  to  quote  all  we  admire  in  this  fine  poem  we 
should  scarcely  leave  a  line  out ;  we  therefore  only  select  those 
parts  which  please  us  most.  Who  does  not  feel  the  truth  of 
this  ? 

"  Ah !  sweet  it  is  to  gaze  upon  the  face, 
Long  seen  but  by  the  mind, — to  fondly  trace, 


260  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

Each  look  and  smile  again :  't  is  life  renewed, — 
How  fresh ! — how  dim  was  that  by  memory  moved ! 
And  oh,  how  pines  the  soul !  how  doth  it  crave  t 

Only  a  moment's  look !     'T  is  in  the  grave, 
That  lovely  face,  no  more  to  bless  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  wait,  thou  'It  meet  it  soon  in  yonder  skies." 

Wordsworth  has,  in  the  first  book  of  his  "  Excursion,"  drawn 
an  elaborate  picture  of  a  sore  heart- wasting  in  the  "Tale  of 
Margaret."  There  the  poet  reaches  the  supreme  eminence  of  a 
broken  heart,  dying  out  of  a  resigned  despair,  by  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  ascents  ever  achieved  by  a  poet.  It  could,  no 
doubt,  be  done  in  half  the  number  of  lines,  but  then  we  should 
miss  that  slow  approach,  which,  like  a  beleaguering  army, 
draws  closer  round  every  day  till  the  captive  is  destroyed. 
Dana  paints  the  same  effect,  in  a  few  lines,  with  great  force  and 
skill. 

"  A  year  went  by.     Another  came  and  passed. 
This  third,  her  friends  would  say,  must  be  the  last. 
Spake  of  his  coming  then,  and  how  he'd  look. 
She  turned  more  pale :  her  head  she  slowly  shook, 
And  something  muttered,  as  in  talk  with  one 
Whom  no  one  saw — then  said, '  It  must  be  done  !' " 

But  our  space  warns  us  that  we  must  quote  no  more  from 
this  fine  poem  ;  though  not  the  longest,  we  consider  it  infi 
nitely  the  finest  the  old  poet  has  written;  there  is  a  quiet 
power  in  it  which  shows  the  real  spirit. 

In  "  Factitious  Life  "  there  is  a  vein  of  quiet  humor  we  did 
not  give  the  poet  credit  for. 

In  another  mood,  the  sea  is  thus  addressed  : 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  261 

"  Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air,  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean  tide." 

This  is  certainly  as  completely  utilitarian  as  though  Jeremy 
JBentham  himself  had  written  it. 

"  Ho !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains, 
And  flings,  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, — 
Hark  !  hear  him,  how  he  beats,  and  tugs,  and  roars — 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite !     I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break : — 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it 's  pain 
To  think : — then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell :  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date :  and  O !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me  !  for  countless  years  thou  hast  rolled  ; 
Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn : — 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath." 

The  four  last  lines  embody  a  bold  thought,  well  expressed  ; 


262  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

the  preceding  lines,  however,  are  very  tame ;  and  the  lines  we 
have  italicized  are  remarkably  prosaic. 

"  And  last  thou  didst  it  well !     The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swepst  to  death  the  breathing  land : 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 
And  though  the  land  is  thronged  again,  O  sea ! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit :  it  is  sadness  all ! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  cliff — he  with  the  iron  crown ! 
And  see,  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge  !" 

There  is  a  simplicity  in  these  lines  amounting  to  a  bareness  ; 
such  as,  "  And  see !"  "  Hark,  hear  him !" 

In  the  "  Dying  Raven  "  Mr.  Dana  shows  many  of  the  pecu 
liarities  of  his  nature.  It  is  a  fine  subject,  and  treated  with 
considerable  force  and  pathos ;  it  has,  however,  the  unfortunate 
defect  of  being  too  long ;  a  grave  fault  in  a  poem,  as  well  as  in 
a  sermon.  It  is  reported  of  a  lively  novelist  that  he  was  so 
much  pleased  with  the  first  part  of  a  discourse  that  he  resolved 
to  bestow  a  dollar  upon  the  charity  in  whose  behalf  it  was 
delivered,  but  owing  to  the  prolixity  of  the  clergyman  he  was 
preached  down  into  a  sixpenny  state  of  mind ! 

We  shall  now  turn  to  Mr.  Dana's  prose  writings,  after  a  few 
remarks,  which  seem  necessary  as  a  sort  of  explanation,  for  the 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  263 

greater  degree  of  attention  we  have  given  to  the  poets  in  this 
volume  than  to  the  prose  writers  of  America. 

Some  readers  may  think  that  we  give  an  undue  influence  to 
poetry,  but  we  cannot  forget  that  Lord  Byron  himself  has 
acknowledged  that  it  is  above  history  and  above  philosophy — 
more  divine  in  its  origin,  and  more  immediately  salutary  in 
its  use. 

With  this  sentiment  on  his  lips,  how  singular  is  it  that  the 
great  philosopher  has  never  named  the  greatest  poet  the  world 
has  ever  produced !  A  German  writer  says  that  Shakspeare  is 
as  far  above  man,  as  God  is  above  Shakspeare.  Without 
upholding  this  singular  dogma,  we  may  be  permitted  to  say 
that  all  men  have  now  agreed  upon  considering  the  author  of 
"  Hamlet "  as  the  first  intellect  of  the  human  race.  While  we 
are  on  the  point  of  Shakspeare  and  Bacon,  we  may  name  that 
the  great  poet  has  quoted  part  of  one  of  Bacon's  essays,  in 
Maria's  letter  to  Malvolio,  and  an  ill-natured  critic  has  been 
malicious  enough  to  suppose  that  the  great  dramatist  meant  to 
satirize  the  chancellor,  under  the  name  of  Malvolio ;  and  that 
Lady  Olivia  was  intended  to  represent  Queen  Elizabeth,  and 
Sebastian,  Lord  Essex.  Contemporary  historians  certainly  al 
lude  to  Bacon's  egotism  and  love  of  display ;  if  so,  the  cross- 
gartering  of  Malvolio  becomes  almost  too  ludicrous  to  be  taken 
as  an  allusion  to  Bacon's  splendid  costume. 

The  chancellor  is  certainly  a  steward,  but  there,  we  take  it, 
the  likeness  ends  :  to  insist  longer  upon  this  point  would  be  to 
realize  the  logic  of  the  man  who  declared  that  Csesar  and  Pom- 
pey  were  very  much  alike,  especially  Pompey ! 

But  we  must  return  to  poetry.     There  is  a  greater  resem- 


264  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

blance  between  the  prophets  and  the  poets,  than  there  is 
between  the  lord-chancellor  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Mal- 
volio  of  Lady  Olivia. 

Prophecy  was  of  a  divine  instinct;  poetry  is  of  the  same 
nature.  There  may  be  in  the  former  more  of  faith  ;  there  is 
in  the  latter  more  of  imagination.  The  lingering  voice  of  God 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden  was  the  poetry  of  Adam  ;  the  echo  of 
that  voice  is  the  poetry  of  the  fallen  race. 

If  we  glance  for  a  minute  at  the  history  of  the  world  we 
shall  find  that  the  ancients  are  chiefly  renowned  for  their  poets, 
such  as  Homer,  Hesiod,  ^Eschylus,  Anacreon,  and  others  that 
naturally  suggest  themselves  to  the  reader's  mind. 

Coleridge  defined  prose  to  be  proper  words  in  their  proper 
places,  and  poetry  to  be  the  best  words  in  the  best  places. 
Some  have  objected  to  this  definition  as  being  too  mechanical, 
but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  Coleridge  always  included 
the  mechanical  in  his  definitions,  otherwise  it  would  only  realize 
the  poets  of  whom  Wordsworth  and  Byron  have  spoken,  such 
as  those  "  who  want  the  faculty  of  verse,"  and  "  many  are  poets 
who  have  never  penned  a  single  stanza,  and  perchance  the 
best !" 

Mr.  Dana's  chief  prose  work  is  "  The  Idle  Man,"  a  collection 
of  papers  much  in  the  style  of  the  "  Sketch  Book,"  but  display 
ing  infinitely  more  vigor  of  thought  and  force  of  style. 

The  critique  on  Kean  is  very  just,  and  shows  a  greater 
knowledge  of  the  requisites  of  a  great  actor  than  so  secluded  a 
man  could  be  expected  to  exhibit. 

Mr.  Dana's  prose  is  remarkably  clear.  It  is  of  a  far  stronger 
order  of  writing  than  Irving's  or  Willis's,  but  we  miss  in  it  the 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  265 

sly  humor  of  the  one  and  the  piquant  liveliness  of  the  other : 
the  whole  is  made  in  a  firmer  mould.  There  is  nothing  very 
original  either  in  thought  or  expression,  but  in  lieu,  we  have 
sound,  earnest  feeling,  in  good  strong  English.  The  chief  fault 
is  an  amplitude  of  execution,  which  borders  on  the  tedious; 
there  is  an  absence  of  those  flashes  of  imagination  which  light 
up  a  page,  and  illuminate  the  whole  subject.  In  short,  Mr. 
Dana  is  one  of  the  old  school,  and  abominates  the  new  fashions 
of  composition. 

His  prejudice  in  favor  of  his  own  school  of  writing  is  amu 
singly  exemplified  in  his  essay  on  "  Hazlitt ;"  as  a  proof  we 
select  a  few  specimens  from  that  paper. 

He  thus  commences  with  his  energetic  protest  against  the 
sketchy  illustration  of  the  English  critic  : 

"  Here  is  a  book  of  large  and  stately  type,  and  fair  and  ample 
margin,  which,  with  eighty  pages  of  extracts,  and  a  good  stretch  of 
blank  at  the  beginnings  and  endings  of  chapters,  leaves,  after  the 
deduction  of  a  general  introductory  chapter,  a  little  more  than 
two  hundred  pages  in  which  to  treat  upon  the  English  Poets,  com 
mencing  with  old  Chaucer,  and  closing  with  criticisms  upon  those  of 
the  present  day." 

Mr.  Dana  should  bear  in  mind  the  intention  of  the  volume 
thus  denounced.  It  was  not  to  make  an  elaborate  exposition 
of  every  line  the  poets  treated  of,  but  to  point  out  their  pecu 
liarities,  which  can  be  as  well  done  in  a  dozen  pages  as  in  a 
volume.  These  voluminous  critiques  always  defeat  themselves. 
There  would  be  no  end  to  such  minute  examination. 

We  remember,  some  years  ago,  Mr.  Home,  in  the  "  Monthly 
Chronicle,"  commenced  a  series  of  papers  called  the  "  Unde- 


266  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

veloped  Characters  of  Sbakspeare."  He  carried  them  on  for 
some  time,  and  grew  eloquent  when  he  introduced  us  to  the 
mother  of  Desdemona,  the  father  of  Othello,  and  the  grand 
father  of  Lady  Macbeth.  Even  the  Egyptian  who  gave  the 
handkerchief  to  Othello's  mother  was  not  forgotten. 

A  critic  in  the  "  Morning  Herald  "  brought  the  series  to  a 
precipitate  end,  by  reminding  the  curious  critic  that  he  must 
not  omit,  when  he  came  to  Macbeth,  to  give  the  birth,  parentage, 
and  education  of  the  "  farrow  of  nine,"  as  well  as  a  history 
of  their  esteemed  parent.  Mr.  Dana  seems  to  be  of  Mr.  Home's 
researching  nature. 

We  were  not  prepared  for  this  unkind  appreciation  of 
Goldsmith : 

"What  Gray  says  of  Addison's  versification,  we  are  sorry  to 
add,  too  well  applies  to  Goldsmith's  also,  which  scarcely  has 
above  three  or  four  notes^  in  poetry,  sweet  enough,  indeed,  like 
those  of  a  German  flute,  but  such  as  soon  tire  and  satiate  the  ear 
with  their  frequent  return." 

To  this  Mr.  Dana  ill-naturedly  adds : 

"  Goldsmith  played  this  very  instrument ;  it  was  significant." 

We  are  sorry  he  does  not  like  the  flute,  as  it  is  the  entire 
orchestra  of  the  amiable  author  of  the  "  Behemoth,  or  the  last 
of  the  Mastodons,"  who,,  we  understand,  performs  the  "  Hallelujah 
Chorus,"  "  Hail  Columbia,"  and  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  on  it  with 
the  surprising  effect  of  clearing  the  street  where  he  resides  in  a 
very  few  minutes.  Mr.  Dana's  criticism  is  sometimes  inge 
niously  amusing.  For  instance,  he  defends  the  undoubted 
foibles  of  his  favorites  in  this  manner : 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  267 

"  For  the  most  part,  we  should  be  content  with  them  as  we  find 
them,  lest,  with  that  obstinacy  so  common  to  such  minds,  they  run 
more  into  the  fault,  or  lest,  in  the  endeavor  to  remove  it,  they  tear 
away  some  beauty  which  was  more  closely  connected  with  it  than 
we  are  aware. 

"  Some  have  complained  of  Milton's  inversions,  and  perhaps 
they  are  now  and  then  overstrained.  Had  he  begun  to  correct 
them,  who  can  tell  where  he  would  have  stopped  ?  Had  he  lis 
tened,  some  pedant  critic  might  have  spoiled  the  loftiest  and  most 
varied  harmony  of  English  verse.  In  the  same  way,  Cowper's 
rhyme  might  have  lost  all  its  spirit.  And  had  Wordsworth,  in  the 
Excursion,  given  more  compactness  to  his  thoughts,  where  they  are 
sometimes  languidly  drawn  out,  he  might  have  lost  something  of  that 
calm  moral  sentiment,  of  that  pure  shedding  of  tlie  soul  oxer  his  world 
of  beauties,  which  lie  upon  them  like  gentle  and  thoughtful  sunset 
upon  the  earth.n 

With  all  deference  for  so  experienced  a  critic  as  Mr.  Dana, 
we  cannot  agree  to  this  piece  of  special  pleading  for  Words 
worth's  prosiness.  "  Calm,  moral  sentiment "  is  dignified  and 
concise,  and  not  wire-drawn  verbosity,  which  constitutes  so 
large  a  portion  of  "  The  Excursion." 

There  is  an  occasional  shrewdness  about  his  remarks  which 
throws  more  light  upon  his  subject  than  a  dozen  pages  of  his 
usual  style.  Critics  complain  of  an  author's  dulness,  and  "  out- 
Herod  Herod "  by  their  own  examples.  Like  Diogenes,  they 
tread  upon  the  pride  of  Plato  with  greater  pride.  This  Satan- 
rebuking  sin  was  one  day  very  amusingly  exemplified  by  that 
prince  of  rare  fellows,  Elliston.  He  was  informed  that  one  of 
his  first  ladies  of  the  ballet  was  so  indignant  at  some  dissatis 
faction  expressed  by  the  audience  one  evening,  that  she  declared 


268  KICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

she  would  not  finish  her  "  pas  de  seul."  The  manager  was  horror- 
struck  at  her  pride,  and  sent  for  her  to  lecture  her  on  such  a 
preposterous  self-conceit.  The  indignant  danseuse  was  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  Robert  William,  the  great  autocrat  of  the 
theatrical  world.  He  received  her  with  these  words  :  "  Madame, 
I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  say  that  an  audience  has  a  right  to 
hiss  as  well  as  to  applaud.  Your  pride  is  dreadful  to  con 
template.  Are  you  aware  that  /  myself  have  actually  been 
hissed  ?" 

The  lady's  reply  was,  "  Indeed,  sir,  and  I  hope  you  liked  it." 
To  return  to  Dana's  critique,  he  says  very  happily: 

"  The  French  tied  up  their  writers,  with  the  little  inspiration  they 
had,  as  if  they  were  madmen,  till  well  might  Madame  de  Stael  ask, 
*  Why  all  this  reining  of  dull  steeds  ?'  At  the  same  time  they 
taught  the  world  to  hold  as  uncouth  the  movements  natural  to 
man,  and  to  admire  sudden,  sharp,  angular  shootings  of  the  limbs 
as  the  only  true  lines  of  beauty,  yet  the  polite  world  not  long  ago 
read  and  talked  nothing  but  French,  and  '  went  to  church  in  a  gal- 
liard,  and  came  home  in  a  levanto.' " 

It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with  an  American  writer  who  has  the 
courage  to  speak  what  he  thinks  right  out,  and  this  rare  virtue 
belongs  essentially  to  Dana.  We  hope  the  American  public 
will  receive  patiently  the  expression  of  our  firm  belief  that  there 
is  less  freedom  of  opinion  in  the  greatest  of  republics  than  in 
many  of  the  greatest  of  despotisms. 

Mr.  Dana  says : 

"  We  must  not  forget,  however,  to  make  one  exception  from  our 
general  neglect  of  American  authors,  for  therein  is  our  boast — our 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  269 

very  liberal  patronage  of  the  compilers  of  geographies,  in  great  and 
little,  reading-books,  spelling-books,  and  arithmetics.  It  is  encou 
raging  to  our  literary  adventurers,  that,  should  they  fail  to  please 
the  public  in  works  of  invention,  they  have  at  least  this  resort; 
and  the  consolation,  that  if  they  are  not  to  rank  with  the  poets  and 
novel  writers  of  the  day,  they  may  be  studied  and  admired  till  Pike 
and  Webster  are  forgotten." 


All  tins,  no  doubt,  is  very  encouraging  to  men  of  imagina 
tion,  such  as  the  author  of  u  Kaloolah"  and  others  of  his  genius 
for  romance,  but  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  be  said  of  a  great 
nation,  who  speak  the  language  that  Shakspeare  spoke,  and 
hold  the  faith  and  morals  of  Milton,  to  use  the  thought  of 
Wordsworth — but  it  is  undoubtedly  true  even  at  this  minute  to 

I  a  certain  extent,  although  we  fancy  we  discern  signs  of  a  clear 
ing  up  of  this  Boethian  night  of  American  literature. 

A  great  portion  of  this  crying  injustice  to  native  authors  is 
founded  in  either  the  timidity  or  malice  of  some  of  the  reviews. 

f.  We  are  told  that  the  editors  of  one  of  the  leading  critical 
papers  in  New  York  have  not  the  courage  to  mention  the  name 
of  a  well-known  American  writer  in  their  columns,  although  he 
is  their  personal  friend,  and  a  contributor  to  their  paper.  To 
make  this  the  more  startling,  we  are  justified  in  adding  that 
privately  they  esteem  him  as  a  writer  of  great  and  sterling 
merit.  What  a  state  !  when  men  of  independent  fortune  dare 
not  in  their  own  review  honestly  avow  their  own  opinions  ! 
This  u  suppressio  veri "  has  a  name  in  the  logic  of  Bacon,  which 
would  apply  here  very  strongly.  Dana  is  a  gratifying  contrast 
to  the  Adelphi  above  alluded  to  ;  he  says  very  innocently : 

12 


270  RICHARD       HENRY       DANA. 

"  Mr.  Irving' s  immediate  success  does  not  rest,  perhaps,  wholly 
upon  his  merit,  however  great.  '  Salmagundi'  came  out  in  num 
bers,  and  a  little  at  a  time.  With  a  few  exceptions,  it  treated  of 
the  city,  and  what  was  seen  and  felt,  and  easy  to  be  understood  by 
those  in  society.  It  had  to  do  with  the  present  and  real,  not  the 
distant  and  ideal.  It  was  pleasant  morning  or  after-dinner  reading, 
never  taking  up  too  much  of  a  gentleman's  time  from  his  business 
and  pleasures,  nor  so  exalted  and  spiritualized  as  to  seem  mystical 
to  his  far-reaching  vision.  It  was  an  excellent  thing  to  spe.-'k  of  in 
the  rests  between  cotillon,  and  pauses  between  games  at  cards,  and 
answered  a  further  convenient  purpose,  inasmuch  as  it  furnished 
those  who  had  none  of  their  own  with  wit  enough,  for  sixpence,  to 
talk  out  the  sitting  of  an  evening  party.  In  the  end,  ii  took  fast 
hold  of  people,  through  their  vanity ;  for  frequent  use  had  made 
them  so  familiar  with  it  as  to  look  upon  it  as  their  own :  ;md  hav 
ing  retailed  its  good  things  so  long,  they  began  to  run  of  the 
notion  that  they  were  all  of  their  own  making." 

This  is  a  very  fair  brick  of  the  Dana  architecture,  and 
exhibits  how  painstaking  and  candid  a  critic  lie  is ;  it  also 
shows  up  that  elongation  rather  than  that  elaboration  <:f  criti 
cism,  which  so  frequently  wearies  the  reader,  and  spoils  the 
effect  of  his  own  simple,  earnest  thought.  He  is,  too,  afraid 
of  it>s  not  being-  understood  in  all  its  bearings.  We  are  happy 
to  be  able  to  agree  with  Mr.  Dana  in  praising  Mr.  Irving's 
"Salmagundi;"  it  was  one  of  the  favorite  books  of  our  child 
hood,  and  it  will,  with  the  u  History  of  New  York,"  probably 
be  his  chief  passport  to  fame. 

Notwithstanding1  Mr.  Dana's  manliness  of  sentiment,  h<  is  a 
little  bitten  with    the  classical  Addisonian  mania.     An   admi- 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  27l 

ration  of  that  agreeable  writer  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  literary 
measles,  which  most  English  and  American  writers  are  obliged 
to  have  once  in  their  life,  and  then  afterwards  to  be  safe  from 
further  attacks. 

In  another  essay,  written  many  years  ago,  Mr.  Dana  shows  a 
great  advance  upon  the  system  of  education  then  in  vogue. 

"We  have  become  too  officious  in  our  helps  to  children;  we 
leave  not  enough  to  the  workings  of  nature,  and  to  impressions 
and  tints  too  exquisite  and  delicate  for  any  hands  but  hers ;  but 
with  a  vain  and  vulgar  ignorance  disturb  the  character  she  was 
silently  and  slowly  moulding  into  beauty,  till  it  is  formed  to  our 
narrow  and  false  taste.  Anxious  lest  the  clearness  of  their  reason 
should  be  dimmed,  their  minds  are  never  left  to  work  their  own 
way  through  the  obscure :  but  ever-burning  lights  are  held  up 
before  them.  They  are  not  indulged  in  the  conjectural,  but  all  is 
anticipated  and  overdone.  We  do  not  enough  consider  that  often 
times  the  very  errors  into  which  they  fall,  through  a  want  of 
thorough  knowledge  of  what  they  see  or  read,  bring  the  invention 
into  action,  and  thus  oive  a  life  to  the  mind,  which  will  survive 
when  these  errors  are  removed  and  forgotten.  Children  may  rea 
son  well,  as  far  as  their  knowledge  carries  them  along,  and  their 
reason  may  still  preside  over  what  their  imagination  supplies. 

"  An  over-anxiety  to  make  of  babies  little  matter-of-fact  men 
and  unbreeched  philosophers,  will  not  add  much  to  their  sum 
of  knowledge  in  after  life,  and  nothing  to  that  faculty  which 
teaches  them  to  consider  and  determine  for  themselves,  and  begets 
that  independent  wisdom  without  which  their  heaped  up  knowledge 
is  but  an  incumbrance.  A  child  now  learns  by  heart  how  a  shoe 
is  made,  from  the  flaying  of  an  ox  for  the  leather  to  the  punching 


272 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 


the  last  hole,  and  can  give  the  best  of  reasons  for  its  being  so  made, 
when  it  had  much  better  be  chasing  a  rainbow.  Such  a  system 
may  make  inquisitive,  but  not  wide-ranging  minds.  It  kills  the 
poetry  of  our  character,  without  enlarging  our  philosophy,  and  will 
hardly  make  us  worthier  members  of  society,  or  give  us  the  hum 
ble  compensation  of  turning  out  better  mechanics." 

All  this  is  admirable,  and  shows  that  the  truest  practical  wis 
dom  is  in  the  most  poetical  minds.  The  old  system  of  educa 
tion  has  many  tine  traits  in  it — we  mean  the  old  chivalric 
theory.  Now  utility  is  the  Juggernaut  before  whose  wheels 
everything  noble  or  romantic  .is  thrown  down  and  crushed. 
The  loftiest  minds  are  those  most  required  in  the  busy  world  ; 
they  are  the  salt  that  sweetens  the  earth,  the  yeast  that  leavens 
the  whole.  A  poet  should  be  encouraged  to  come  out  into 
the  crowded  haunts,  and  mingle  familiarly  with  his  fellow-men, 
and  not,  as  is  often  the  case,  driven  into  his  own  solitary  cham 
ber,  to  turn  his  face  to  the  wall  and  die.  The  great,  the  fatal 
evil  of  the  present  day  is  want  of  imagination.  There  is  not 
enough  to  bring  the  human  masses  to  that  average  idealism 
absolutely  necessary  to  carry  on  the  Christian  government  of 
the  world.  The  New  Testament  is  rapidly  becoming  practically 
obsolete,  but,  like  all  hypocrites,  the  respectable  classes  preach 
more  in  proportion  as  they  practise  less.  Our  Saviour  would 
stand  a  poor  chance  in  modern  cities  ;  destitution  or  a  jail 
would  be  his  fate,  while  possibly  some  benevolent  men  might 
suggest  a  lunatic  asylum  as  a  humane  compromise. 

Tested  by  the  world,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  an  absur 
dity,  and  the  actions  of  Christ  those  of  a  maniac.  Hard  as  it 
may  appear,  the  majority  of  respectable  men  are  practical 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  273 

atheists.  It  is  reported  that  an  English  millionaire,  in  a  dis 
cussion  once  with  an  enthusiast,  who  was  arguing  that  money 
was  a  very  secondary  matter,  and  that  our  Saviour  had  a  great 
contempt  for  riches,  astonished  the  worthy  Christian  by  boldly 
declaring  "  that  he  could  not  deny  but  that  Christ  had  held 
those  opinions,  but,"  said  he,  "  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  our 
Saviour  was  not  sufficiently  aware  of  the  value  of  money." 
This  setting  Omniscience  right  is  done  by  the  great  bulk  of 
mankind.  Every  merchant  does  it  every  hour  of  his  life.  The 
money-changers  of  Threadneedle  street  and  Wall  street  utter 
cutting  sarcasms  in  reply  to  "  What  shall  a  man  receive  in 
exchange  for  his  soul  ?"  Dollars  or  pounds  sterling,  of  course  ! 

We  do  not  wish  to  undervalue  the  practical  faculties  and  the 
useful  part  of  man's  nature.  We  should  as  soon  think  of 
neglecting  the  body  merely  because  the  soul  was  of  so  much 
more  importance.  One  is  necessary  to  the  other,  to  complete 
the  human  being,  arid  in  like  manner  poetry  is  as  needful  to 
the  well-being  of  man  as  religion  and  morals  are  to  society. 

Dana  well  observes : 

"  Society  should  be  like  the  earth  about  us,  where  the  beautiful, 
the  grand,  the  humble,  the  useful,  lie  spread  out,  and  running  into 
each  other;  where,  indeed,  for  the  most  part,  so  beautiful  is  the  use 
ful  that  we  almost  forget  its  uses  in  its  beauty." 

There  is  a  general  yet  dignified  tolerance  running  throughout 
our  author's  writings,  which  shows  the  liberal  mind  as  well  as 
poetical  heart.  The  following  is  another  proof  of  that  careful 
working  up  of  his  modes  of  illustration,  which  shows  how  com 
pletely  he  has  studied  his  subject.  Still  we  miss  in  this  well 


274  RICHARD      HENRY      DANA. 

ordered  prose  those  touches  of  light  which  reveal  more  than 
words : 

"  We  are  filling  our  hot-houses  and  gardens  with  plants  of  the 
tropics,  and  of  the  earth.  We  decompose  air,  and  water,  and 
earths.  Find  the  dip  of  rocks,  and  mark  their  strata ;  voyage  into 
regions  of  thick -ribbed  ice ;  travel  up  to  the  sources  of  strange 
rivers ;  betake  ourselves  to  the  mountain  tops,  and  are  bustling  and 
busy  in  this  great  huddling  and  overturning  of  everything  within 
our  reach,  while  the  delightful  mystery  within  us  lives  on  unex- 
amined  and  unobserved.  But  if  the  pursuit  of  this  mystery  has 
been  neglected  for  objects  more  gainful,  or  of  cheaper  fame,  it  has 
inward  satisfyings  and  healthful  moral  uses,  which  are  found 
only  here.  We  can  scarcely  look  into  the  hearts  of  other  men 
without  seeing  the  workings  of  our  own,  and  learning  to  know  our 
selves  in  studying  them.  This  brings  us  nearly  to  each  other,  and 
in  opening  out  like  weaknesses  and  like  virtues,  teaches  us  forgive 
ness  and  love." 

There  is  a  sustained  power  of  reasoning  in  most  of  Dana's 
prose  works  which  insensibly  produces  on  the  reader's  mind  that 
respectful  assent,  which  is  the  highest  tribute  a  second-rate 
writer  can  receive.  To  the  chief  bards  of  prose  composition, 
such  as  Milton,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  their  compeers,  alone 
belongs  that  enthusiastic  reverence  which  carries  us  along  in  a 
glow  of  delight. 

Who  can  forget  the  first  study  of  the  Areopagitica  of  the 
former,  or  the  Sermons  of  the  latter  ?  They  are  epochs  in  the 
life  of  the  mind  !  We  take  leave  of  Mr.  Dana  with  a  sincere 
respect  for  his  talents.  Both  in  prose  and  verse  he  has  earned 
a  right  to  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most  genuine  writers  of 


RICHARD      HENRY      DANA.  275 

America.  We  prefer  his  poetry  to  his  prose  for  several 
reasons,  but  chiefly  on  account  of  its  comprising  the  qualities 
of  that  species  of  composition  with  a  higher  faculty.  His 
verse  is  carefully  finished,  and  displays  occasionally  a  vein  of 
imagination,  which,  if  more  sustained,  would  place  him  very 
high  in  the  rank  of  even  English  poets.  He  has  less  unmean 
ing  epithets  than  any  American  poet,  except  Emerson,  we  have 
met  with,  and  some  of  his  illustrations  are  remarkably  happy. 
There  is,  however,  a  want  of  coristructiveness  in  his  mind  which 
impairs  his  power  as  a  narrative  poet. 

His  prose  writings  are  full  of  sound  thought  in  sound 
English,  and  evince  in  every  page,  if  not  the  man  of  an 
original  genius  or  a  wide  range  of  mind,  at  all  events  one  who 
has  the  sagacity  to  think  for  himself,  and  the  honesty  to  write 
what  he  thinks. 


276         FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD 


FRANCES    SARGENT    OSGOOD. 


IT  is  very  seldom  that  a  woman  of  any  real  genius  Las  so 
great  a  facility  of  throwing  her  fancies  into  shape  as  Mrs.  Osgood. 
Had  her  utterance  been  more  difficult  she  would  have  writ 
ten  better.  Mrs.  Hemans  was  an  example  of  how  much  fine 
poetry  is  weakened  by  that  elegant  clothing  of  satin  which  she 
could  so  easily  throw  over  her  children.  The  very  opening 
poem  of  the  American  poetess  is  a  striking  instance.  It  reminds 
us  of  a  weak  translation  of  some  of  Anacreon's  odes  by 
Thomas  Moore. 

"  Love,  no  more  with  that  soul  of  fire 
Sweep  the  strings  and  sound  the  lyre ; 
All  too  wild  the  sad  refrain, 
When  thy  touch  awakes  the  strain. 
Thou  henceforth  must  veil  thy  face, 
With  its  blush  of  childish  grace, 
Still  thy  sweet  entrancing  tone, 
Fold  thy  wings  and  weep  alone !" 

The  idea  is  here  positively  so  weakened  by  amplification  that 
we  can  hardly  be  said  to  recognise  one  in  the  whole  eight  lines. 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 


277 


What  can  be  done  in   that  number  of  verses  every  reader  of 
Goldsmith  can  tell — 

"  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly." 

The  lady  whom  we  thus  criticise  tells  us  what  she  can  per 
form  in  a  small  compass,  when  she  pleases — 

"  Lyre  !  amid  whose  chords  my  soul, 
Lulled,  enchanted,  proudly  stole, 
Folly,  vanity,  and  mirth, 
Long  have  turned  thy  tones  to  earth, 
I  will  take  thee  hushed  and  holy, 
Changed  in  heart,  and  sad  and  lowly, 
Into  Nature's  mother's  heart, 
There  I'll  lay  thee  down  to  rest." 

This  species  of  verse  is  very  captivating.  It  seems  as  though 
t  were  the  same  that  Pope  said — "  Lord,  Fanny  spins  a  thou 
sand  such  a  day."  To  be  closely  written  it  is  perhaps  more 
difficult  than  any  in  the  language.  Lord  Byron  was  one  of 
the  few  that  could  wield  the  Anacreontic  rhythm  with  much 
effect. 

In  her  "  Spirit  of  Poetry"  there  is  a  great  tenderness  and  a 
deep  yearning  after  the  undefined. 

"  Leave  me  not  yet !  leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  dear  idqal  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart ! 
Thou  that  dost  veil  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light,  and  loveliness,  and  truth, 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet  fairy  story, 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth." 
12* 


278         FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 

There  are,  however,  far  too  many  lines  in  this  poem  ;  never 
theless  there  is  a  line  vein  of  impassioned  feeling  throughout. 

In  ki  Ermengardes  Awakening "  there  are  many  stanzas  of 
great  beauty. 

"  And  the  proud  woman  thrilled  to  its  false  glory, 
And  when  the  murmur  of  her  own  true  soul 
Told  in  low  lute  tones  love's  impassioned  story 

She  dreamed  that  music  from  the  statue  stole, 
And  knelt  adoring  at  the  silent  shrine, 
Her  own  divinity  had  made  divine. 

*  *  ':  *  * 

"  Like  Egypt's  queen  in  her  imperial  play, 

She  in  abandonment  more  wildly  sweet 
Melted  the  pearl  of  her  pure  life  away, 

And  poured  the  rich  libation  at  its  feet ; 
And  in  exulting  rapture  dreamed  the  smile 
That  should  have  answered  in  its  eye  the  while." 

This  stanza  is  full  of  woman's  best  thought : 

"  And  in  her  desolate  agony  she  cast 

Her  form  beside  love's  shivered  treasure  there, 
And  cried,  '  Oh,  God !  my  life  of  life  is  past, 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  my  despair !' 
Hark,  from  the  lute  one  low,  melodious  sigh, 
Thrilled  to  her  heart  a  sad  yet  sweet  reply  !" 

In  her  "  Eurydice  "  there  are  lines  so  full  of  passionate  feel 
ing  that  we  seem  to  be  sharing  the  thought  of  something 
between  man  and  woman  : 

"  Now  soft  and  low  a  prelude  sweet  uprings, 
As  if  a  prisoned  angel,  pleading  there 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD.         27U 

For  life  and  love,  were  fettered  'neath  the  strings, 

And  poured  his  passionate  soul  upon  the  air. 
Anon  it  clangs  with  wild,  exultant  swell, 
Till  the  full  paean  peals  triumphantly  through  hell." 

In  the  verses  to  Queen  Victoria  on  her  way  to  Guildhall,  we 
noticed  that  yearning  after  the  glitter  of  the  old  despotism  which 
is  so  marked  a  feature  in  the  upper  classes  of  American  society. 
Turkey  carpets,  brilliant  furniture,  and  crowded  balls,  insensibly 
undermine  that  republican  independence  so  indispensable  to 
the  welfare  of  the  American  people. 

Sometimes  she  endeavors  to  mix  up  instruction  with  song,  as 
in  "  Laborare  est  Orare,"  but  she  is  not  successful  in  these 
attempts. 

"  '  Labor  is  worship,' — the  robin  is  singing : 
'  Labor  is  worship,' — the  wild  bee  is  singing  : 
Listen  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing, 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart." 

The  greatest  attempt  Mrs.  Osgood  has  made  is  in  her 
"  Fragments  of  an  Unfinished  Story."  Here  we  have  a  poem 
of  nearly  four  hundred  lines  in  blank  verse,  which  we  have 
been  told  by  the  authoresses  themselves  is  the  most  difficult  of 
all  for  a  lady  to  write.  One  can  easily  comprehend  this  ;  the 
delicate  feminine  nature  is  carried  along  by  her  musical  sympa 
thies,  and  there  is  something  too  independent  in  a  verse  which 
leans  riot  on  rhyme  for  support. 

The  commencement  contains  a  very  startling  creed,  which  we 
suppose  few  are  ready  to  give  faith  to. 


280  FRANCES      SARGENT      OSGOOD. 

"  A  friend !  are  you  a  friend  ?     No,  by  my  soul, 
Since  you  dare  breathe  the  shadow  of  a  doubt 
That  I  am  true  as  truth.     Since  you  give  not 
Unto  my  briefest  look — my  gayest  word, 
My  faintest  change  of  cheek,  my  softest  touch, 
Most  sportive,  causeless  smile,  or  low-breathed  sigh- 
Nay,  to  my  voice's  lightest  modulation, 
Though  imperceptible  to  all  but  you : 
If  you  give  not  to  these,  unquestioning, 
A  limitless  faith,  the  faith  you  give  to  heaven — 
I  will  not  call  you  friend." 

x 
It  is  a  pity  the  fair  writer  had  not  put  this  idea  into  half  the 

space.  She  has  wiredrawn  the  sentiment  till  we  lose  its  form 
altogether.  Every  line  obliterates  a  part  of  the  image  instead 
of  completing  it. 

"  Deny  me  faith — that  poor  yet  priceless  boon, 
And  you  deny  the  very  soul  of  love  !" 

Here  we  have  the  whole  summed  up  in  a  concise  manner, 
which  we  wish  she  would  more  frequently  employ.  She  well 
says  : 

"  What  though  a  thousand  seeming  proofs  condemn  me? 
If  my  calm  image  smile  not  dear  through  all, 
Serene  and  without  shadow  on  your  heart ! 
Nay,  if  the  very  vapors  that  would  visit  it, 
Par!  not  illumined  by  its  presence  pure, 
As  round  night's  tranquil  queen  the  clouds  divide, 
Then  rend  it  from  that  heart !" 

We  recognise  in  every  page  that  tendency  to  sacrifice  sense 
to  sound — the  thought  to  the  melody.  This,  we  are  aware,  is  a 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 


281 


lady-like  quality,  but  not  the  invariable  accompaniment  of  the 
female  muse.  In  Elizabeth  Barrett  we  have  a  rare  instance  of 
more  solicitude  for  the  idea  than  the  words.  Miss  Fuller  like 
wise  treats  the  melody  of  her  verses  as  a  secondary  object ;  but 
we  fear  Mrs.  Osgood  considers  it  of  primary  importance.  Music 
resembles  poetry,  all  admit,  and  in  nothing  is  the  resemblance 
more  complete  than  in  this  ;  that  the  thought  should  be  in 
poetry  what  the  melody  is  in  music,  and  that  the  versification 
of  the  one  answers  to  the  bass  accompaniment  of  the  other  ; 
the  thought  and  the  air  should  of  course  be  the  controlling 
power. 

gome  of  her  poems  are  exceedingly  graceful.  We  take 
this  as  an  instance  : 

"  Round  a  lattice  low,  to  twine", 
Rose  a  graceful  cylantine  ; 
And  within  the  window  near 
Hung  a  prism  cold  and  clear, 
Where  a  spirit  dwelt  apart, 
With  a  proud  but  pining  heart, 

Like  a  weary, 

Languid  Peri, 

Captive  in  a  diamond  palace, 
Catching  sunbeams  in  a  chalice." 

There  is  a  great  mechanical  fancy  in  Mrs.  Osgood's  poems ; 
some  are,  indeed,  too  ingenious  to  please  us.  There  is  a  deter 
mination  to  work  up  comparisons  and  fables.  In  many  we 
have  the  old  style  of  putting  "  sermons  in  stones,"  and  "  breath 
to  the  brook  !" 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 

"  The  brook  tripped  by,  with  smile  and  sigh, 

And  soft  in  music  murmurs  sung, 
While  all  the  flowers  that  blossomed  nigh, 
Were  hushed  to  hear  that  silver  tongue. 

" '  Ah,  virgin  violet,  breathed  the  brook, 

Whose  blue  eye  shuns  the  light,  the  air, 
I  love  you !  in  this  true  heart  look, 

And  see  your  own  sweet  image  there.' " 

This  is  very  well  for  little  children,  but  one  who  has  pre 
tensions  to  so  high  a  station  in  poetry  as  Mrs.  Osgood  should 
not  publish  them  for  grown  people. 

But  in  the  "  Dying  Rosebud's  Lament"  she  has  carried  ^liis 
prettiness  to  the  verge  of  affectation.  We  are  willing  to  allow 
a  great  margin  to  a  lady's  sympathy,  but  we  cannot  go  the 
Ultima  Thule  of  Mrs.  Osgood. 

"  Ah  me  !  ah  woe  is  me ! 

That  I  should  perish  now, 
With  the  dear  sunlight  just  let  in 
Upon  my  balmy  brow. 

"  My  leaves,  instinct  with  glowing  life, 

Were  quivering  to  unclose, 
My  happy  heart  with  love  was  rife, 
I  was  almost  a  Rose !" 

We  cannot  forget  that  Keats  has  said  all  that  can  be  said  of 
a  rose-bud  or  a  rose. 

"  As  though  a  rose  could  shut  and  be  a  bud  again." 
In  the  "  Ashes  of  Roses  "  we  have  a  more  solemn  subject  for 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD.         283 

reflection.  It  is  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  mother  on  the 
death  of  her  child,  and  is  certainly  a  triumph  of  its  kind.  It 
is,  however,  a  painful  poem  to  read,  if  we  believe  it  is  founded 
on  fact.  Dryden  observes,  "  great  grief  is  dumb,"  and  we  can 
hardly  realize  a  mother  making  a  song  out  of  a  dead  child. 
But  when  we  say  this  we  make  every  concession  the  poet's 
nature  may  demand,  and  we  know  that  "  the  ways  of  genius 
are  not  our  ways,  nor  their  thoughts  our  thoughts."  Still, 
human  nature  is  the  same  in  the  poet  as  in  the  ploughboy  ; 
nay,  even  in  the  editor,  that  sublimation  of  humanity  soaring 
above  the  weakness  of  virtue  or  the  enormity  of  affection. 

In  years  after,  when  some  casual  occurrence  reminds  the 
living  of  the  departed,  the  chords  of  emotion  may  thrill  at  the 
touch,  but  even  then  the  music  will  be  fragmentary,  and  par 
take  more  of  the  accidental  than  the  deliberate  design. 

It  seems  almost  like  digging  the  dead  up  from  the  solemn 
peace  of  the  sepulchre  to  gaze  once  more  on  that  form  which 
should  be  transfigured  in  heaven.  Nevertheless,  with  all  these 
considerations,  time  may  soften  the  grief,  and  render  it  suscep 
tible  of  a  poetical  apotheosis. 

"  Truly  the  memory  of  the  just 
Smells  sweet  and  blossoms  in  the  dust !" 

The  poem  which  has  provoked  these  remarks  is  full  of  truth 
ful,  vigorous  painting,  and  if  written  out  of  the  ideality  of  the 
sorrow,  and  not  its  reality,  secures  for  its  fair  authoress  much 
praise.  With  this  proviso  the  whole  demands  unqualified 
admiration. 


284        FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 

She  faded,  faded  in  my  arms,  and  with  a  faint  slow  sigh 
Her  fair,  young  spirit  went  away.     Ah  !  God,  I  felt  her  die, 

******* 

A  little  flower  might  so  have  died — so  tranquilly  she  closed 
Her  lovely  mouth,  and  on  my  heart  her  helpless  head  reposed." 
******* 

The  sense  of  security  against  all  ills  which  a  child  feels  in  the 
presence  of  a  mother  is  touchingly  told. 

"  For  oh !  it  seemed  the  darling  dreamed  that  while  she  clung  to 

me, 

Safe  from  all  harm  of  death  or  pain  she  could  not  help  but  be, 
That  I  who  watched  in  helpless  grief  my  flower  fade  away, 
That  I — oh,  heaven!    had  life  and  strength  to  keep  her  from 
decay !" 

This  line  contains  more  thought  and  truth  than  are  generally 
found  in  verses  of  this  description. 

"  The  soul  that  here  must  hide  its  face, 

There  lives  serene  in  right .'" 

And  ever  in  thy  lovely  path,  some  new,  great  truth  divine, 
Like  a  dear  star  that  dawns  in  heaven,  undyingly  doth  shine." 

Mrs.  Osgood  has  always  a  superior  reference  to  the  affections 
in  everything  she  writes.  In  her  "  Deaf  Girl  Restored "  are 
some  charming  verses." 

"  A  world  of  melody  wakes  around, 

Each  leaf  of  the  tree  has  its  tremulous  tone, 
And  the  rippling  rivulet's  lullaby  sound, 

And  the  wood  bird's  warble  are  all  mine  own. 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD.         285 

But  nothing — oh  !  nothing  that  I  have  heard, 
Not  the  lay  of  the  lark  nor  the  coo  of  the  dove, 

Can  match,  with  its  music,  one  fond,  sweet  word, 
That  thrills  to  my  soul  from  the  lips  I  love." 

Mrs.  Osgood  is  somewhat  too  profuse  of  her  "all's"  and 
"  oil's ;"  tliay  ruar  the  harmony  and  repose  of  some  of  her 
finest  verses.  Sparingly  used  and  placed  in  their  right  posi 
tion,  they  are  very  effective,  like  a  cordial  administered  to  a 
sick  patient ;  but  when  indulged  in  habitually,  they  defeat  their 
own  purpose,  and,  in  fact,  become  positively  injurious. 

We  all  know  how  guarded  the  greatest  masters  of  composi 
tion  have  been  in  the  use  of  exclamations,  and  how  carefully 
they  have  selected  the  fitting  spot  for  their  insertion.  Sheridan's 
MS.  of  a  famous  speech  shows  that  it  took  him  some  time  to 
hit  upon  the  most  appropriate  place  for  "  Good  God,  Mr. 
Speaker." 

As  Mrs.  Osgood  has  not  thought  fit  to  include  her  drama  of 
"  Elfricla"  in  the  new  edition  of  her  poems,  we  shall  not  con 
sider  it  critically,  but  pass  over  it  with  the  remark  that  we  con 
sider  it  altogether  a  very  creditable  composition,  more  especially 
when  the  age  at  which  she  wrote  it  is  taken  into  consideration. 
It  is  not  fitted  to  the  stage,  being  deficient  in  action  and  pas 
sion.  It  is  more  a  story  told  by  dialogues,  artificially  connected, 
but  admirably  written. 

The  chief  merits  of  our  fair  writer  are  tenderness  of  feeling 
and  grace  of  expression.  As  we  observed  before,  she  too  fre 
quently  sacrifices  the  strength  of  the  thought  to  the  beauty  of 
the  words  ;  and  even  here  she  often  fails,  from  her  diffuseuess, 
and  wish  to  say  all  that  can  be  said  on  the  theme  she  has  in 


286         FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 

hand.  She  has  a  lively  fancy,  but  little  imagination ;  and  her 
fancy  is  sometimes  displayed  so  artificially  as  to  induce  the 
reader  to  put  it  down  altogether  to  the  score  of  mere  pretti- 
ness  of  thought  and  conceit  of  expression.  Still,  there  are  a 
feminine  power,  pathos,  and  tenderness  about  the  writing  of 
Mrs.  Osgood,  which  will  always  render  her  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  poets  of  the  New  World. 


8.      MARGARET      FULLER. 


287 


S,    MARGARET    FULLER, 


AT  this  present  time  there  are  three  women  who  greatly  re 
semble  each  other  in  their  intellectual  nature  :  and  they  belong 
to  the  three  greatest  nations  in  the  world.  France  has  her 
Madame  Dudevant,  or  better  known  by  the  name  of  George 
Sand  ;  England,  her  Elizabeth  Barrett ;  and  America,  her  Mar 
garet  Fuller.  Singular  to  add,  they  are  all  now  within  a 
short  distance  of  each  other,  two  being  in  Italy,  and  the  other 
in  Paris.  The  personal  meeting  of  these,  the  first  women  of 
the  age,  must  be  of  extraordinary  interest,  and  we  would  cheer 
fully  barter  away  a  year  of  our  own  existence  to  listen  to  their 
comnmnings  for  one  day. 

An  American  author  of  great  eminence,  some  time  since,  de 
nominated  Margaret  Fuller  the  George  Sand  of  America ; 
and,  much  as  we  dislike  that  hackneyed  fashion  of  making  the 
great  intellect  of  one  nation  a  kind  of  duplicate  of  another,  yet 
there  is  more  justness  in  this  comparison  than  generally  falls  to 
the  lot  of  that  absurd  method  of  getting  at  facts,  or  something 
like  them. 

It  must  of  course  be  understood  that  we  mean  here  only  an 


288  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

intellectual  parallel.  We  name  this  to  guard  against  the  possi 
bility  of  any  misconception,  as  we  know  there  is  a  prejudice 
against  the  French  authoress  on  account  of  sundry  freaks  she  is 
supposed  to  indulge  in,  such  as  assuming  male  attire,  roaming 
the  streets,  and  smoking  cigars.  With  all  these  drawbacks,  she 
is  a  woman  of  great  and  undoubted  genius,  and  as  such  she 
has  been  acknowledged  by  the  first  intellects  of  the  age. 

We  may  as  well  mention  here  as  a  justification  for  our  admi 
ration  of  George  Sand,  that  Elizabeth  Barrett,  wife  to  the  poet 
Browning,  has,  in  one  of  the  finest  sonnets  of  the  time,  warmly 
acknowledged  her  claim  to  the  respect  and  sympathy  of  wo 
mankind.  The  praise  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  out 
weighs  a  host  of  mongrel  carpers. 

It  is  a  common  method  to  attack  every  woman  who  en 
deavors  to  earn  for  her  sex  a  loftier  and  more  appreciatory  po 
sition  in  the  government  of  the  world,  or  in  the  constitution  of 
society.  It  certainly  has  happened  with  a  few  female  reformers 
that  they  have  carried  their  theories  somewhat  too  wildly  into 
practice,  and  overproved  their  case :  like  vaulting  ambition, 
they  have  overleaped  themselves.  But  while  the  world  con 
demns  the  personal  conduct  of  Mary  Wolstoncroft,  Mrs. 
Shelley,  and  some  others,  it  should  at  least  be  just  to  those  who 
avoid  these  errors.  Were  Christianity  to  be  judged  by  the 
Simeon  Stylites  and  other  fanatics,  who  would  profess  them 
selves  Christians  ?  But  it  is  the  cunning  of  falsehood  to  con 
found  an  abuse  with  the  use,  and  so  make  the  truth  itself  hate 
ful,  or  at  all  events  doubtful. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  man  should  have  this  enmity  to 
women  who  endeavor  the  most  to  render  woman  more  helpful 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  289 

to  him  ;  and  no  less  strange  that  woman  herself  should  join  in 
this  crusade  against  the  recovery  of  her  long-lost  birthright. 

It  seems  almost  absurd  to  say  so,  but  it  appears  to  us  to  be 
the  truth  (and  confirmed  by  the  experience  of  others)  that 
there  is  great  jealousy  shown  by  men  of  all  classes  to  women  of 
great  intellect. 

This  may,  perhaps,  account  for  the  unpopularity  of  female 
writers,  more  especially  if  they  happen  to  tread  upon  forbidden 
subjects,  such  as  the  equality  of  the  sexes.  In  many  men 
there  is  a  great  appearance  of  deference  to  the  gentler  part  of 
creation,  but  we  take  it  this  proceeds  from  a  lower  feeling  than 
that  of  respect.  It  is  seldom  that  man  shows  a  deference  to 
anything  except  wealth  or  beauty :  his  instinct  is  against 
woman's  intellect. 

It  is  not,  however,  our  intention  to  discuss  this  question  ;  we 
merely  give  it  as  the  opinion  of  many  of  the  wisest  men  we 
have  conversed  with,  and  we  content  ourselves  with  merely 
making  the  assertion. 

We  have  been  led  chiefly  to  this  statement  by  the  tone 
which  many  have  adopted  towards  the  eminent  authoress  at 
the  head  of  this  article. 

We  have  carefully  read,  and  at  first  with  a  prejudiced  eye, 
all  her  writings,  and  we  see  no  ground  for  the  objections  which 
have  been  made  against  her  doctrines. 

We  hope  to  show  that  she  is  not  alone  one  of  the  first 
of  the  daughters  of  America,  but  that  she  is  one  of  the  wisest 
of  women. 

We  shall  consider  her  prose  writings  first,  and  then  "illumi- 


290  s. 


ARGARET       FULLER. 


nate  our  pages "  with  some  of  the  most  genuine  poetry  the 
female  pen  of  the  New  World  has  produced. 

We  commence  with  the  volume  which  first  roused  our  atten 
tion  and  excited  our  admiration. 

In  1843  she  published  her  "  Summer  on  the  Lakes,"  and 
seldom  has  so  small  a  volume  contained  so  much  fine  thought 
and  been  so  full  of  suggestiveness. 

There  is  a  total  absence  of  the  old  notions.  WTe  here  find 
one  who  has  a  freshness  of  nature  which  can  think  and  feel  for 
herself.  How  unlike  the  stale  common-place  rhapsodies  on 
Niagara  is  the  following  : 

"  We  have  been  here  eight  days,  and  I  am  quite  willing  to  go 
away.  So  great  a  sight  soon  satisfies,  making  us  content  with 
itself,  and  with  what  is  less  than  itself.  Our  desires  once  realized, 
haunt  us  again  less  readily:  having  'lived  one  day'  we  would  de 
part,  and  become  worthy  to  live  another. 

"  We  have  not  been  fortunate  in  weather,  for  there  cannot  be 
too  much  or  too  warm  sunlight  for  this  scene,  and  the  skies  have 
been  lowering  with  cold,  unkind  winds.  My  nerves,  too  much 
braced  up  by  such  an  atmosphere,  do  not  well  bear  the  continual 
stress  of  sight  and  sound.  For  here  there  is  no  escape  from  the 
weight  of  a  perpetual  creation ;  all  other  forms  and  motions  come 
and  go,  the  tide  rises  and  recedes,  the  wind  at  its  mightiest,  moves 
in  gales  and  gusts,  but  here  is  really  an  incessant,  an  indefatigable 
motion. 

"  Awake  or  asleep  there  is  no  escape ;  still  this  rushing  round  you 
and  through  you.  It  is  in  this  way  I  have  most  felt  the  gran 
deur, — somewhat  eternal,  if  not  infinite. 

"At  times  a  secondary  music  rises;  the  calrvract  seems  to  seize 


8.       MARGARET       FULLER.  291 

its  own  rhythm,  and  sing  it  over  again,  so  that  the  ear  and  soul  are 
roused  by  a  double  vibration.  This  is  some  effect  of  the  wind, 
causing  echoes  to  the  thundering  anthem.  It  is  very  sublime,  giv 
ing  the  effect  of  a  spiritual  repetition  through  all  the  spheres." 

Although  we  have  never  seen  Niagara,  nor  listened  to  its 
deafening  anthem,  we  feel  the  truth  of  this  description ;  and 
that  is  the  gift  of  genius,  to  enable  us  to  feel  the  presence  of  a 
great  man,  a  stirring  heroic  event,  or  sublimity  of  nature,  by 
means  of  the  poet's  soul. 

How  vigorously  she  portrays  the  sentiment  which  all  have 
felt  in  the  presence  of  beautiful  or  sublime  scenery  ! 

"  But  all  great  expression,  which,  on  a  superficial  survey,  seems 
so  easy  as  well  as  so  simple,  fnrnishes,  after  a  while,  to  the  faith 
ful  observer  its  own  standard  by  which  to  appreciate  it.  Daily 
these  proportions  widened  and  towered  more  and  more  upon  my 
sight,  and  I  got  at  last  a  proper  foreground  for  these  sublime  dis 
tances.  Before  coming  away,  I  think  I  really  saw  the  full  wonder 
of  the  scene.  After  awhile  it  so  drew  me  into  itself  as  to  inspire 
an  undefined  dread,  such  as  I  never  knew  before,  such  as  may  be 
felt  when  death  is  about  to  usher  us  into  a  new  existence" 

Miss  Fuller,  in  her  desire  to  clip  the  plummet  down  to  the 
very  depths  of  human  nature,  lias,  with  her  usual  boldness, 
seized  upon  a  presentiment  which,  no  doubt,  at  particular 
I  seasons,  has  impressed  every  mind.  We  pause  over  her 
remark  in  italics,  as  it  affords  us  an  opportunity  of  noticing  that 
love  of  psychological  illustration  which  seems  to  be  so  natural 
to  her. 


292  8.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

This  is  hardly  a  place  to  discuss  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
death,  but  we  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  remark  that  this  allu 
sion  to  the  vague  intimation  of  a  future  state  is  a  favorite  illus 
tration  with  our  fair  writer. 

How  far  these  presentiments  are  based  on  truth,  it  is  not 
permitted  for  the  intellect,  in  its  present  state,  to  ascertain.  It 
may  be  that  every  birth  is  a  death,  and  every  death  a  birth ; 
and  that,  as  year  succeeds  to  year,  carrying  the  human  race 
forward  in  its  progress  towards  its  ultimate  destiny,  so  may 
what  we  call  birth  and  death  be  only  a  process  of  each  indi 
vidual  mind  in  its  journey  to  perfection.  One  would  think  that 
curiosity  alone  would  enable  us  to  welcome  death,  seeing  that  it 
is  the  portal  to  a  greater  sphere  of  existence. 

While  Miss  Fuller  has  a  spirit  capable  of  feeling  the  vastness 
of  her  subject,  she  has  also  an  eye  ready  to  detect  the  minuter 
traits  of  character.  After  her  speculations  on  the  metaphysical 
parts  of  our  nature,  the  following,  coming  immediately  after  it, 
reads  somewhat  outr6  : 

"  Once,  just  as  I  had  seated  myself  there,  a  man  came  to  take 
his  first  look.  He  walked  close  up  to  the  fall,  and  after  looking  at 
it  a  moment,  with  an  air  as  if  thinking  how  he  could  best  appro 
priate  it  to  Ms  own  use,  he  spat  into  it" 

This  spitting  into  a  cataract  is  no  mean  illustration  of  the 
insults  occasionally  offered  to  men  of  genius  by  the  low-minded. 
The  latter  act  is  more  frequently  indulged  in,  but  it  is  quite  as 
contemptible  an  act  in  one  case  as  the  other,  and  covers  the 
spitter,  and  not  the  cataract,  with  contempt. 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  293 

This  insensibility  to  grandeur  is  a  common  defect,  or  perhaps 
we  ought  to  say  that  the  susceptibility  to  beauty  and  sublimity 
is  the  gift  of  only  the  superior  nature. 

It  is  related  that  an  English  merchant  travelling  to  Mount 
Vesuvius  was  so  indignant  at  its  not  vomiting  forth  torrents  of 
flame,  as  he  had  seen  it  in  pictures,  that  he  snapped  his  fingers 
at  it,  crying,  "  Vesuvius,  you're  a  humbug  !"  We  prefer  the 
Utilitarian  who  declared  that  Etna  was  a  famous  place  to  light 
a  cigar  at.  It  was  a  similar  want  of  the  power  of  appreciation 
that  induced  a  Londoner  to  pronounce  that  Humboldt  was  an 
overrated  man,  and  when  asked  for  evidence  to  support  this 
novel  opinion,  he  said,  with  the  self-satisfied  air  of  a  man  who 
fancies  he  is  settling  a  disputed  point — "  Why,  you  must  know, 
that  I  dined  with  him  at  a  friend's  the  other  day,  and  so  long 
as  he  was  allowed  to  talk  about  the  Andes,  the  Himalaya,  and 
places  nobody  had  ever  heard  of,  and  in  whose  existence  I 
don't  believe,  of  course  Humboldt  had  it  all  his  own  way  ;  but 
I  settled  him.  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  Turnham  Green 
was,  and,  would  you  believe  it — he  didn't  know — he  was 
dumbfoundered.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  like  such  a  fool  before. 
He  is  a  pretty  traveller,  to  be  sure  !" 

We  fear  this  is  the  way  with  the  world.  They  select  their 
own  confined  local  knowledge,  or  rather  ignorance,  to  test  the 
intellect  of  a  man  whose  mind  grasps  a  world. 

This  confounding  the  squabbling  gossip  of  their  own  parish 
with  the  enlarged  politics  of  the  world  is  a  common  case  with 
too  many. 

We  need  hardly  say  that  to  the  men  who  recognise  Niagara 
as  only  a  great  water  power  for  turning  mills,  or  as  the  tailor 

13 


294  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

did,  as  a  first-rate  place  for  sponging  a  coat,  the  writings  of 
Miss  Fuller  are  so  much  Greek ;  her  mind  is  of  a  far  different 
order.  She  flies  higher  and  dives  deeper  than  those  who  float 
upon  the  surface.  There  is  likewise  a  great  power  of  association 
in  her  nature ;  she  generally  brings  together  one  fact  to  throw 
light  upon  another,  or  to  fix  it  more  firmly  on  the  mind  by  the 
force  of  contrast : 

"  No   less   strange   is   the   fact   that   in   this   neighborhood  (of 
Niagara)  an  Eagle  should  be  chained  for  a  plaything.     When  a 
child,  I  used  often  to  stand  at  a  window  from  which  I  could  see  an 
eagle  chained  in  the  balcony  of  a  museum.      The  people  used  to 
poke  at  it  with  sticks,  and  my  childish  heart  would  choke  with  indig 
nation  as  I  saw  their  insults,  and  the  mien  with  which  they  were 
borne  by  the  monarch  bird.     Its  eye  was  dull,  and  its  plumage 
soiled  and  shabby,  yet  in  its  form  and  attitude  all  the  king  was  visi 
ble,  though  sorrowful  and  dethroned  !     I  never  saw  another  of  the 
family  till  when  passing  through  the  Notch  of  the  White  Moun 
tains.     At  that  moment,  striving  before  us  in  all  the  panoply  of 
sunset,  the  driver  shouted,  *  Look  there !'  and  following  with  our 
eyes  his  upward  pointing  finger,  we  saw,  soaring  slow  in  majestic  'J 
poise  above  the  highest   summit,  the   Bird   of  Jove !     It  was  a 
glorious  sight,  yet  I  know  not  that  I  felt  more  in  seeing  the  bird  in   ; 
all  its  natural  freedom  and   royalty,   than   when  imprisoned  and 
insulted,  he  had  filled  my  early  thoughts  with  the  Byronic  '  silent 
rays'  of    misanthropy !     Now    again   I   saw   him    a    captive,  and 
addressed  by  the  vulgar  with  the  language  they  seem  to  find  most 
appropriate  to  such  occasions — that  of  thrusts  and  blows.     Silently, 
his   head   averted,   he    ignored  their   existence,   as   Plotinus    and 
Sophocles  might  that  of  a  modern  reviewer.     Probably  he  listened 
to  the  voice  of  the  cataract,  and  felt  that  congenial  powers  flowed  . 
free,  and  was  consoled,  though  his  own  wing  was  broken." 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  295 

We  once  heard  of  a  tradesman  who  had  lived  to  a  moderate 
age  without  having  seen  the  ocean.  He  had  read  about  it  in 
the  papers,  as  though  it  had  been  an  advertisement,  and  his 
curiosity  was  roused  to  see  it,  just  as  he  had  a  desire  to  know 
how  far  Warren's  blacking  came  up  to  the  description  of  its 
wonderful  powers.  A  glowing  account  of  a  tempest  on  the 
coast  determined  him  to  judge  of  the  sea  by  his  own  senses. 
Being  a  cheesemonger,  he  was  accustomed  to  test  everything  by 
the  taste.  On  his  arrival  at  Brighton  he  wrapt  himself  up  care 
fully,  and  proceeded  to  the  beach.  By  degrees  he  ventured  to 
approach  as  near  to  the  foam-crested  waves  as  was  prudent,  and 
after  running  after,  and  then  receding  from  the  billows,  he 
cautiously  dipped  his  finger  into  a  wave,  and  tasted  it.  Making 
a  wry  face,  as  he  would  over  a  dose  of  physic,  he  returned  to 
his  inn,  and  departed  next  day  for  London,  with  a  complete 
knowledge  of  the  world  of  waters. 

There  is  also  a  quiet  power  about  some  of  Miss  Fuller's  comic 
descriptions,  which  are  as  effective  as  any  of  the  absurd  distor 
tions  of  Dickens.  The  former  reaches  her  object  by  the  quiet 
force  of  her  humor,  the  other  attempts  to  succeed  by  the  unex 
pected  blow  of  gross  caricature  !  The  true  comedian  is  one 
who  delights  his  audience  with  the  comic  expression  of  his 
countenance  ;  it  is  the  clown  who  raises  a  laugh  with  the  chalk 
and  red  ochre,  depending  chiefly  on  an  enormous  nose,  highly 
painted,  and  with  a  fictitious  mouth,  stretching  apparently  from 
ear  to  ear.  We  are  glad,  however,  to  perceive  that  this  false 
taste  is  rapidly  declining  on  both  sides  the  Atlantic.  We  quote 
a  description  of  Miss  Fuller's  evening  adventure. 

"  With  us  was  a  young  lady  who  showed  herself  to  have  been 


296  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

bathed  in  the  Britannic  fluid  wittily  described  by  a  late  French 
writer,  by  the  impossibility  she  experienced  of  accommodating  her 
self  to  the  indecorums  of  the  scene.  We  ladies  were  to  sleep  in 
the  bar-room,  from  which  its  drinking  visitors  could  be  ejected  only 
at  a  late  hour.  The  outer  door  had  no  fastening  to  prevent  their 
return.  However,  our  host  kindly  requested  we  would  call  him,  if 
they  did,  as  he  had  '  conquered  them  for  us,'  and  would  do  so 
again.  We  had  also  rather  hard  couches  (mine  was  the  supper  table), 
but  we  Yankees,  born  to  rove,  were  altogether  too  much  fatigued  to 
stand  upon  trifles,  and  slept  as  sweetly  as  we  would  in  the  '  bigly 
bower'  of  any  baroness.  But  I  think  England  sat  up  all  night, 
wrapped  in  her  blanket  shawl,  and  with  a  neat  lace  cap  upon  her 
head ;  so  that  she  would  have  looked  perfectly  the  lady  if  any  one 
had  come  in;  shuddering  and  listening.  I  know  that  she  was  very 
ill  next  day,  in  requital.  She  watched,  as  her  parent  country 
watches  the  seas,  that  nobody  may  do  wrong  in  any  case,  and  de 
served  to  have  met  some  interruption,  she  was  so  well  prepared. 
However,  there  was  none,  other  than  from  the  nearness  of  some 
twenty  sets  of  powerful  lungs,  which  would  not  leave  the  night  to 
a  deadly  stillness." 

To  a  poetical  mind  the  commonest  occurrence  has  a  meaning 
which  the  many  never  see  :  there  is  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  the  Hamlets  and  the  Horatios  of  human  nature. 

Few  men  so  thoroughly  understood  the  heart  as  Cervantes 
and  Shakspeare.  How  singular  a  coincidence  that  both  these 
great  spirits  should  leave  earth  the  same  day !  It  seems  as 
though  they  had  been  asked  to  meet,  no  other  men  being 
equal  to  the  task  of  entertaining  each  other. 

Never  did  poet  so  wonderfully  condense  into  two  individuals 
the  great  classes  of  mankind  as  Cervantes  has  done  in  Sancho 


8.      MARGARET      FULLER.  29*7 

Panza  and  his  master.  While  the  former  represents  the  com 
mon-place  of  the  human  family,  the  other  is  the  sublime  em 
bodiment  of  the  chivalrous  and  the  imaginative.  Don  Quixote 
is  truly  of  imagination  all  compact !  And  how  wonderfully 
does  an  indulgence  in  their  own  natures  lower  the  one  down  to 
a  greater  sensualism,  the  other  intensed  and  heightened  into 
madness  !  While  the  Squire  is  the  representative  of  worldly 
wisdom,  cunning,  and  that  interested  fidelity  so  prevalent  in 
the  world,  the  knight  is  a  perfect  type  of  the  generous,  the 
noble,  and  the  brave-hearted  gentleman.  In  a  word,  Sancho 
Panza  is  the  prose,  and  Don  Quixote  is  the  poetry  of  human 
nature. 

And  how  wonderfully  true  to  experience  is  the  result  of 
many  of  the  woful  knight's  philanthropic  endeavors !  Witness 
his  humane  interference  in  favor  of  the  idle  sheep-boy,  whom 
his  master  thrashed  twice  as  much  when  Don  Quixote  had 
turned  his  back.  No  bad  illustration  of  the  effect  produced  on 
the  slave-trade  by  the  "  humanity  men  "  of  England  and  Ame 
rica.  Notice  also  the  "  shaping  power  of  his  fancy "  when  he 
mistakes  windmills  for  men-at-arms.  This  is  only  the  imagina 
tive  powers  carried  one  step  beyond  their  natural  scope.  As 
the  poet  says : 

"  Great  genius,  sure,  to  madness  is  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  the  bounds  divide." 

And  a  modern's  illustration  of  beauty  may  be  applied  to  the 
mind : 

"  One  shade  the  more — one  shade  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  that  nameless  grace !" 


298  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

How  subtly  tfrk  imagination  works  on  itself,  none  can  tell. 
But  that  every  poet  has  a  madness  slumbering  in  his  nature  is 
clear  to  every  self-reflective  man. 

An  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  is  the  first  sensation  of  the 
poetical  mind :  that  belongs  to  many.  The  power  of  giving 
that  faculty  an  utterance  is  the  gift  of  the  few :  those  few  are 
the  poets.  To  Miss  Fuller  the  flight  of  a  flock  of  pigeons  is  a 
music. 

"One  beautiful  feature  was  the  return  of  the  pigeons  every 
afternoon  to  their  home.  Every  afternoon  they  came  sweeping 
across  the  lawn,  positively  in  clouds,  and  with  a  swiftness  and  soft 
ness  of  winged  motion,  more  beautiful  than  anything  of  the  kind  I 
ever  knew.  Had  I  been  a  musician,  such  as  Mendelssohn,  I  felt 
that  I  could  have  improvised  a  music  quite  peculiar,  from  the 
sound  they  made,  which  should  have  indicated  all  the  beauty  over 
which  their  wings  bore  them." 

To  the  imagination, 

"  The  meanest  flower  that  blows,  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

How  often  does  the  rery  loftiness  of  a  man's  nature  lead  to 
the  odium  of  the  world,  as  from  an  eminence  he  beholds  things 
the  crowd  denies,  because  they  cannot  see  so  far  on  account  of 
their  low  stature.  Much  of  the  objection  that  has  been  raised 
to  Miss  Fuller's  writings  has  proceeded  from  this  defect  in  the 
eyesight  of  the  world.  Occasionally  that  fine  woman's  instinct, 
which  is  a  half-revelation,  lets  us  into  more  of  the  heart 
than  a  volume  of  man's  preaching. 


8  .      MARGARET      FULLER.  299 

"  Oh !  it  is  a  curse  to  woman  to  love  first,  er  most. 
In  so  doing  she  reverses  the  natural  relations, 
And  her  heart  can  never,  never  be  satisfied 
With  what  ensues." 

But  we  refer  the  reader  to  the  story  of  Mariana,  as  related  in 
this  little  volume ;  it  is  one  of  the  most  touching  and  power 
fully  drawn  narrations  we  have  ever  met  with. 

Many  half-truth  commentators  have  misrepresented  Miss 
Fuller's  theory  of  the  position  of  woman.  We  hope  it  is  their 
ignorance,  and  not  their  malice,  which  has  led  to  this  injustice. 
For  our  own  part,  we  cordially  echo  her  sentiments,  convinced 
that  every  day  brings  us  nearer  to  the  realization  of  her  system. 
After  some  observations  upon  Philip  Van  Artevelde,  she 
says: 

"  When  will  this  country  have  such  a  man  ?  It  is  what  she 
needs ;  no  thin  Idealist,  no  coarse  Realist,  but  a  man  whose  eye 
reads  the  heavens  while  his  feet  step  firmly  on  the  ground,  and 
his  hands  are  strong  and  dexterous  for  the  use  of  human  imple 
ments.  A  man  religious,  virtuous,  and — sagacious ;  a  man  of  uni 
versal  sympathies,  but  self-possessed;  a  man  who  knows  the 
region  of  emotion,  though  he  is  not  its  slave ;  a  man  to  whom  this 
world  is  no  mere  spectacle,  or  fleeting  shadow,  but  a  great  solemn 
game  to  be  played  with  good  heed,  for  its  stakes  are  of  eternal 
value,  yet  who,  if  his  own  play  be  true,  heeds  not  wThat  he  loses  by 
the  falsehood  of  others.  A  man  who  hives  from  the  past,  yet 
knows  that  its  honey  can  but  moderately  avail  him ;  whose  com 
prehensive  eye  scans  the  present,  neither  infatuated  by  its  golden 
lures  nor  chilled  by  its  many  ventures ;  who  possesses  prescience, 
as  the  wise  man  must,  but  not  so  far  as  to  be  driven  mad  to-day  by 


300  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

the  gift  which  discerns  to-morrow.     When  there  is  such  a  man  for 
America,  the  thought  which  urges  her  on  will  be  expressed." 

Who  can  deny  the  following  ? 

"  It  marks  the  defect  in  the  position  of  woman  that  one  like 
Mariana  should  have  found  reason  to  write  thus.  To  a  man  of 
equal  power,  equal  sincerity,  no  more! — many  resources  would 
have  presented  themselves.  He  would  not  have  needed  to  seek,  \ 
he  would  have  been  called  by  life,  and  not  permitted  to  be  quite 
wrecked  through  the  affections  only.  But  such  women  as  Mariana 
are  often  lost,  unless  they  meet  some  man  of  sufficiently  great  soul 
to  prize  them." 

And  where  is  the  political  economist  who  contradicts  this  ? 

"  Might  the  simple  maxim,  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  be  laid 
to  heart !     Might  a  sense  of  the  true  aims  of  life  elevate  the  tone  'j 
of  politics  and  trade,  till  public  and  private  honor  become  identical ! 
Might  the  western  man,  in  that  crowded  and  exciting  life  which  de-  I 
velopes  his  faculties  so  fully  for  to-day,  not  forget  that  better  part 
which  could  not  be  taken  from  him !     Might  the  western  woman 
take  that  interest  and  acquire  that  light  for  the  education  of  the  j 
children,  for  which  she  alone  has  leisure ! 

"  This  is  indeed  the  great  problem  of  the  place  and  time.  If  the 
next  generation  be  well  prepared  for  their  work,  ambitious  of  good 
and  skilful  to  achieve  it,  the  children  of  the  present  settlers  may  be 
leaven  enough  for  the  mass  constantly  increasing  by  emigration. 
And  how  much  is  this  needed  where  those  rude  foreigners  can  so 
little  understand  the  best  interests  of  the  land  they  seek  for  bread 
and  shelter !  It  would  be  a  happiness  to  aid  in  this  good  work, 
and  interweave  the  white  and  golden  threads  into  the  fate  of  Illi 
nois.  It  would  be  a  work  worthy  the  devotion  of  any  mind." 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

Whatever  be  the  subject  she  thinks  for  herself,  and  boldly 
gives  her  opinion,  without  reference  to  the  popular  feeling. 
We  were  glad  to  read  this : 

"  At  Detroit  we  stopped  for  half  a  day.  This  place  is  famous  in 
our  history,  and  the  unjust  anger  at  its  surrender  is  still  expressed 
by  almost  every  one  who  passes  there.  I  had  always  shared  the 
common  feelings  on  this  subject ;  for  the  indignation  at  a  disgrace 
to  our  arms  that  seemed  so  unnecessary,  has  been  handed  down 
from  father  to  child,  and  few  of  us  have  taken  the  pains  to  ascer 
tain  where  the  blame  lay.  But  now,  upon  the  spot,  having  read 
all  the  testimony.  I  felt  convinced  that  it  should  rest  solely  with 
the  government,  which,  by  neglecting  to  sustain  General  Hull,  as 
he  had  a  right  to  expect  they  would,  compelled  him  to  take  this 
step,  or  sacrifice  many  lives,  and  of  the  defenceless  inhabitants,  not 
of  soldiers,  to  the  cruelty  of  a  savage  foe,  for  the  sake  of  his  repu 
tation. 

"  I  am  a  woman,  and  unlearned  in  such  affairs ;  but,  to  a  person 
with  common  sense  and  good  eyesight,  it  is  clear,  when  viewing 
the  location,  that,  under  the  circumstances,  he  had  no  prospect  of 
successful  defence,  and  that  to  attempt  it  would  have  been  an  act 
of  vanity,  not  valor. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  not  biased  in  this  judgment  by  my  personal 
relations,  for  I  have  always  heard  both  sides,  and,  though  my  feel 
ings  had  been  moved  by  the  picture  of  the  old  man  sitting  down, 
in  the  midst  of  his  children,  to  a  retired  and  despoiled  old  age 
after  a  life  of  honor  and  happy  intercourse  with  the  public,  yet 
tranquil,  always  secure  that  justice  must  be  done  at  last,  I  sup 
posed,  like  others,  that  he  deceived  himself,  and  deserved  to  pay 
the  penalty  for  failure  to  the  responsibility  he  had  undertaken. 
Now  on  the  spot,  I  change,  and  believe  the  country  at  large  must, 

13* 


302  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

ere  long,  change  from  this  opinion.  And  I  wish  to  add  my  testi 
mony,  however  trifling  its  weight,  before  it  be  drowned  in  the 
voice  of  general  assent,  that  I  may  do  some  justice  to  the  feelings 
which  possessed  me  here  and  now." 

In  Miss  Fuller's  essay  on  "  Milton "  we  recognise  that  clear 
bold  spirit,  which  smiles  at  the  timidity,  too  frequent,  when 
treating  on  the  most  original  men  of  the  past. 

"Mr.  Griswold  justly  and  wisely  observes: — 'Milton  is  more 
emphatically  American  than  any  author  who  has  lived  in  the  Uni 
ted  States.'  He  is  so  because  in  him  is  expressed  so  much  of  the 
primitive  vitality  of  that  thought  from  which  America  is  born, 
though  at  present  disposed  to  forswear  her  lineage  in  so  many 
ways.  He  is  the  purity  of  Puritanism.  He  understood  the  nature 
of  liberty,  of  justice — what  is  required  for  the  unimpeded  action  of 
conscience — what  constitutes  true  marriage,  and  the  scope  of  a 
manly  education.  He  is  one  of  the  Fathers  of  this  Age,  of  that 
new  Idea  which  agitates  the  sleep  of  Europe,  and  of  which  America, 
if  awake  to  the  design  of  Heaven  and  her  own  duty,  would  become 
the  principal  exponent.  But  the  Father  is  still  far  beyond  the  un 
derstanding  of  his  child. 

"  His  ideas  of  marriage,  as  expressed  in  the  treatises  on  Divorce, 
are  high  and  pure.  He  aims  at  a  marriage  of  souls.  If  he  incline 
too  much  to  the  prerogative  of  his  own  sex,  it  was  from  that  man- 
nishness,  almost  the  same  with  boorislmess,  that  is  evident  in  men 
of  the  greatest  and  richest  natures,  who  have  never  known  the  re 
fining  influence  of  happy,  mutual  love,  as  the  best  women  evince 
narrowness  and  poverty  under  the  same  privation.  In  every  line 
we  see  how  much  Milton  required  the  benefit  of  '  the  thousand  de 
cencies  that  daily  flow'  from  such  a  relation,  and  how  greatly  he 


S.     MARGARET     FULLER.  303 

would  have  been  a  gainer  by  it,  both  as  man  and  as  genius.  In 
his  mind  lay  originally  the  fairest  ideal  of  woman ;  to  see  it  real 
ized  would  have  'finished  his  education.'  His  commonwealth 
could  only  have  grown  from  the  perfecting  of  individual  men. 
The  private  means  to  such  an  end  he  rather  hints  than  states  in  the 
short  essay  to  Education.  They  are  such  as  we  are  gradually 
learning  to  prize.  Healthful  diet,  varied  bodily  exercises,  to  which 
we  no  longer  need  give  the  martial  aim  he  proposed,  fit  the  mind 
for  studies  which  are  by  him  arranged  in  a  large,  plastic,  and  natu 
ral  method." 

Milton's  doctrine  of  marriage  has  too  often  been  confounded 
with  the  special  pleading  of  his  "  Treatise  on  Divorce :"  not  but 
in  time  there  is  little  doubt  that  all  the  world  will  have  come 
to  his  conclusions  even  on  that  subject. 

We  have  the  highest  authority  for  believing  that  "  man  was 
not  made  for  the  Sabbath,  but  the  Sabbath  for  man ;"  and  even 
do  we  believe  that  marriage  was  instituted  to  conduce  to 
human  happiness,  and  not  to  prove  a  principle,  or  an  abstract 
right. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  laws  regulating  the  union  of  the  sexes 
are  the  result  of  six  thousand  years'  experience,  and  should  not 
be  lightly  tampered  with.  This  argument  can  be  made  to 
answer  every  effort  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  human 
family. 

After  all,  these  questions  must  be  decided  by  fresh  discoveries, 
which  are  constantly  breaking  upon  us,  just  as  our  physical 
nature  is  being  regulated  by  new  facts  in  surgery  and  chemis 
try.  There  is  a  science  in  one  case  as  indisputable  as  in  the 
other,  and  the  ethics  of  a  hundred  years  ago  is  now  obsolete. 


304  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

The  more  mankind  is  venerated,  the  less  will  be  the  respect 
shown  to  the  "  outworn  creeds"  of  the  dark  ages.  The  masses 
respect  a  venerable  blunder  more  than  they  do  the  most  bril 
liant  discovery  of  modern  times. 

That  Miss  Fuller  has  full  faith  in  the  future  is  very  evident 
from  every  page  of  her  writings ;  she  is  not  a  mere  echo  of  the 
prevalent  opinion,  but  has  a  bold  independent  voice  of  her  own, 
filled  with  her  own  thought. 

What  she  says  of  Coleridge  is  very  true,  and  expresses  the 
opinion  of  many  of  the  deepest  thinkers  of  England. 

"  Give  Coleridge  a  canvas,  and  he  will  paint  a  single  mood  as  if 
his  colors  were  made  of  the  mind's  own  atoms.  Here  he  is  very 
unlike  South ey.  There  is  nothing  of  the  spectator  about  Cole 
ridge  ;  he  is  all  life ;  not  impassioned,  not  vehement,  but  searching, 
intellectual  life,  which  seems  *  listening  through  the  frame '  to  its 
own  pulses. 

"  I  have  little  more  to  say  at  present  except  to  express  a  great, 
though  not  fanatical  veneration  for  Coleridge,  and  a  conviction  that 
the  benefits  conferred  by  him  on  this  and  future  ages  are  as  yet 
incalculable.  Every  mind  will  praise  him  for  what  it  can  best 
receive  from  him.  He  can  suggest  to  an  infinite  degree ;  he  can 
inform,  but  he  cannot  reform  and  renovate.  To  the  unprepared  he 
is  nothing ;  to  the  prepared,  everything.  Of  him  may  be  said  what 
he  said  of  nature  : 

4  We  receive  but  what  we  give, 
In  kind  though  not  in  measure.' 

"I  was  once  requested,  by  a  very  sensible  and  excellent  personage, 
to  explain  what  is  meant  by  '  Christabel '  and  '  The  Ancient 
Mariner.'  I  declined  the  task.  I  had  not  then  seen  Coleridge's 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  305 

answer  to  a  question  of  similar  tenor  from  Mrs.  Barbauld,  or  I 
should  have  referred  to  that  as  an  expression,  not  altogether  unin 
telligible,  of  the  discrepancy  which  must  exist  between  those  minds 
which  are  commonly  styled  rational  (as  the  received  definition  of 
common  sense  is  insensibility  to  uncommon  sense),  and  that  of 
Coleridge.  As  to  myself,  if  I  understand  nothing  beyond  the 
execution  of  those  « singularly  wild  and  original  poems,'  I  could 
not  tell  my  gratitude  for  the  degree  of  refinement  which  Taste  has 
received  from  them.  To  those  who  cannot  understand  the  voice 
of  Nature  or  Poetry,  unless  it  speak  in  apothegms,  and  tag  each 
story  with  a  moral,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  My  own  greatest  obli 
gation  to  Coleridge  I  have  already  mentioned.  It  is  for  his  sug 
gestive  power  that  I  thank  him." 

We  are  glad  to  have  so  true-hearted  a  woman  as  Margaret 
Fuller  confirming  the  opinion  on  the  drama  we  have  expressed 
in  both  this  volume  and  our  previous  one  on  the  "  Living 
Authors  of  England." 

"  The  drama  cannot  die  out :  it  is  too  naturally  born  of  certain 
periods  of  national  development.  It  is  a  stream  that  will  sink  in 
one  place,  only  to  rise  to  light  in  another.  As  it  has  appeared  suc 
cessively  in  Hindostari,  Greece  (Rome  we  cannot  count),  England, 
Spain,  France,  Italy,  Germany,  so  has  it  yet  to  appear  in  New  Hol 
land,  New  Zealand,  among  ourselves,  when  we  too  shall  be  made 
new  by  a  sunrise  of  our  own,  when  our  population  shall  have  set 
tled  into  a  homogeneous,  national  life,  and  we  have  attained  vigor 
to  walk  in  our  own  way,  make  our  own  world,  and  leave  off  copy 
ing  Europe. 

"At  present  our  attempts  are,  for  the  most  part,  feebler  than 
those  of  the  British  'After  Muse,'  for  our  play-wrighte  are  not 
from  youth  so  fancy-fed  by  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  tables  of 


306  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

the  lords  of  literature,  and  having  no  relish  for  the  berries  of  our 
own  woods,  the  roots  of  our  own  fields,  they  are  meagre,  and  their 
works  bodiless ;  yet,  as  they  are  pupils  of  the  British  school,  their 
works  need  not  be  classed  apart,  and  I  shall  mention  one  or  two  of 
the  most  note-worthy  by-and-by." 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  a  critical  light  that  she  shows  her 
clear  instinct ;  it  is  also  in  matters  of  feeling.  How  noble  and 
how  womanly  is  her  breaking  out  into  the  following  eulogium 
on  Browning's  female  creations  ! 

"  We  bless  the  poet  for  these  pictures  of  women,  which,  however 
the  common  tone  of  society,  by  the  grossness  and  levity  of  the 
remarks  bandied  from  tongue  to  tongue,  would  seem  to  say  the 
contrary,  declare  there  is  still  in  the  breasts  of  men  a  capacity  for 
pure  and  exalting  passion, — for  immortal  tenderness." 

And  how  true  is  her  reference  to  the  old  crime  of  "  Hero- 
Murder." 

"  But  the  shrewd,  worldly  spy,  the  supplanted  rival,  the  woman 
who  was  guilty  of  that  lowest  baseness  of  wishing  to  make  of  a 
lover  the  tool  of  her  purposes,  all  grow  better  by  seeing  the  action 
of  this  noble  creature  under  the  crucifixion  they  have  prepared  for 
him ;  especially  the  feelings  of  the  rival,  who  learns  from  his 
remorse  to  understand  genius  and  magnanimity,  are  admirably  de 
picted.  Such  repentance  always  comes  too  late  for  one  injured ; 
men  kill  him  first,  then  grow  wiser  and  mourn ;  this  dreadful  and 
frequent  tragedy  is  shown  in  Luria's  case  with  its  full  weight  of 
dark  significance,  spanned  by  the  rainbow  beauty  that  springs  from 
the  perception  of  truth  and  nobleness  in  the  victim." 

In  her  remarks  on  American  Literature  we  heartily  coincide, 


S.      MARGAKET      FULLER.  307 

so  far  as  they  are  general ;  with  respect  to  her  estimate  of  some 
of  its  authors  we  very  much  differ. 

"  For  it  does  not  follow  because  many  books  are  written  by  per 
sons  bom  in  America  that  there  exists  an  American  literature. 
Books  which  imitate  or  represent  the  thoughts  and  life  of  Europe, 
do  not  constitute  an  American  literature.  Before  such  can  exist,  an 
original  idea  must  animate  this  nation,  and  fresh  currents  of  life 
must  call  into  life  fresh  thoughts  along  its  shores." 

The  first  step  towards  the  cure  of  a  disease  is  to  be  aware  of 
its  existence.  In  like  manner  the  want  is  known,  let  the  public 
encourage  those  who  can  supply  it. 

The  injurious  tendency  of  any  nation  depending  upon  another 
for  its  reading  is  evident,  more  especially  when  the  reading- 
nation  is  a  republic,  and  the  author  nation  a  monarchy. 

"  Yet  there  is,  often,  between  child  and  parent,  a  reaction  from 
excessive  influence  having  been  exerted,  and  such  an  one  we  have 
experienced,  in  behalf  of  our  country,  against  England.  We  use 
her  language,  and  receive,  in  torrents,  the  influence  of  her  thought, 
yet  it  is,  in  many  respects,  uncongenial  and  injurious  to  our  consti 
tution.  What  suits  Great  Britain,  with  her  insular  position  and 
consequent  need  to  concentrate  and  intensify  her  life,  her  limited 
monarchy,  and  spirit  of  trade,  does  not  suit  a  mixed  race,  continually 
enriched  with  new  blood  from  other  stocks  the  most  unlike  that  of 
our  first  descent,  with  ample  field  and  verge  enough  to  range  in 
and  leave  every  impulse  free,  and  abundant  opportunity  to  develope 
a  genius,  wide  and  full  as  our  rivers,  flowery,  luxuriant,  and  impas 
sioned  as  our  vast  prairies,  rooted  in  strength  as  the  rocks  on  which 
the  Puritan  fathers  landed." 

We  have  been  much  struck  with  the  manner  in  which  Miss 


308  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

Fuller,  in  a  few  lines,  throws  off  a  sketch  of  an  author.     They 
have  all  some  prominent  features  which  speak  a  likeness. 

How  seldom  does  a  critic  write  so  justly  of  a  contemporary  as 
we  have  here  before  us. 

"  R.  W.  Emerson,  in  melody,  in  subtle  beauty  of  thought  and 
expression,  takes  the  highest  rank  upon  this  list.  But  his  poems 
are  mostly  philosophical,  which  is  not  the  truest  kind  of  poetry. 
They  want  the  simple  force  of  nature  and  passion,  and,  while  they 
charm  the  ear  and  interest  the  mind,  fail  to  wake  far-off  echoes  in 
the  heart.  The  imagery  wears  a  symbolical  air,  and  serves  rather 
as  illustration,  than  to  delight  us  by  fresh  and  glowing  forms  of 
life." 

We  regret  that  our  fair  critic  was  not  more  generous  in  her 
estimation  of  Lowell.  We  hope  to  be  able  in  our  next  volume, 
the  second  series  of  American  authors,  to  give  a  reason  for  our 
faith  as  regards  Mr.  Lowell,  which  is  totally  at  variance  with 
Miss  Fuller. 

We  dismiss  these  desultory  remarks  on  American  literature 
with  the  following  passage  from  her  writings  : 

"  That  day  will  not  rise  till  the  fusion  of  races  among  us  is  more 
complete.  It  will  not  rise  till  this  nation  shall  attain  sufficient 
moral  and  intellectual  dignity  to  prize  moral  and  intellectual,  no  ] 
less  highly  than  political  freedom ;  not  till  the  physical  resources  of 
the  country  being  explored,  all  its  regions  studded  with  towns, 
broken  by  the  plough,  netted  together  by  railways  and  telegraph 
lines,  talent  shall  be  left  at  leisure  to  turn  its  energies  upon  the 
higher  department  of  man's  existence.  Nor  then  shall  it  be  seen, 
till  from  the  leisurely  and  yearning  soul  of  that  riper  time  national 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  309 

ideas  shall  take  birth,  ideas  craving  to  be  clothed  in  a  thousand 
fresh  and  original  forms. 

"  Without  such  ideas  all  attempts  to  construct  a  national  litera 
ture  must  end  in  abortions  like  the  monster  of  Frankenstein, 
things  with  forms,  and  the  instincts  of  forms,  but  soulless,  and 
therefore  revolting.  We  cannot  have  expression  till  there  is 
something  to  be  expressed. 

"  The  symptoms  of  such  a  birth  may  be  seen  in  a  longing  felt 
here  and  there  for  the  sustenance  of  such  ideas.  At  present,  it 
shows  itself,  where  felt,  in  sympathy  with  the  prevalent  tone  of  so 
ciety,  by  attempts  at  external  action,  such  as  are  classed  under  the 
head  of  social  reform.  But  it  needs  to  go  deeper,  before  we  can 
have  poets ;  needs  to  penetrate  beneath  the  springs  of  action,  to  stir 
and  remake  the  soil  as  by  the  action  of  fire. 

"  Another  symptom  is  the  need  felt  by  individuals  of  being  even 
sternly  sincere.  This  is  the  one  great  means  by  which  alone  pro 
gress  can  be  essentially  furthered.  This  is  the  nursing  mother  of 
genius.  No  man  can  be  absolutely  true  to  himself,  eschewing 
cant,  compromise,  servile  imitation,  and  complaisance,  without  be 
coming  original,  for  there  is  in  every  creature  a  fountain  of  life 
which,  if  not  choked  back  by  stones  and  other  dead  rubbish,  will 
create  a  fresh  atmosphere,  and  bring  to  life  fresh  beauty.  And  it 
is  the  same  with  the  nation  as  with  the  individual  man." 

Our  readers  cannot  fail  noticing  the  clearness  of  our  fair 
critic's  style :  there  is  no  useless  ornament ;  it  is  transparent 
prose,  which  developes  the  subject  clearly  in  all  its  proportions. 

We  have,  however,  seen  in  her  "  Summer  on  the  Lakes " 
that  when  her  subject  demands  a  more  glowing  style  she  is 
fully  equal  to  tlie  occasion. 

One  of  the  most  charming  compositions  we  have  read  for  a 


310  S.      MARQARET      FULLER. 

long  time  is  that  entitled  "  The  Two  Herberts."  It  is,  however, 
of  a  kind  which  demands  the  justice  of  a  full  perusal ;  we 
therefore  offer  only  one  extract,  affording  proof  of  Miss  Fuller's 
interest  in  the  old  country  and  its  noble  cavaliers. 

"  The  two  forms  were  faithful  expressions  of  their  several  lives. 
There  was  a  family  likeness  between  them,  for  they  shared  in  that 
beauty  of  the  noble  English  blood,  of  which,  in  these  days,  few 
types  remain  :  the  Norman  tempered  by  the  Saxon,  the  fire  of  con 
quest  by  integrity,  and  a  self-contained,  inflexible  habit  of  mind. 
In  the  time  of  the  Sydney s  and  Russell  s,  the  English  body  was  a 
strong  and  nobly-proportioned  vase,  in  which  shone  a  steady  and 
powerful,  if  not  brilliant  light. 

"  The  chains  of  convention,  an  external  life  grown  out  of  propor 
tion  with  that  of  the  heart  and  mind,  have  destroyed,  for  the  most 
part,  this  dignified  beauty.  There  is  jio  longer,  in  fact,  an  aristo 
cracy  in  England,  because  the  saplings  are  too  puny  to  represent 
the  old  oak.  But  that  it  once  existed,  and  did  stand  for  what  is 
best  in  that  nation,  any  collection  of  portraits  from  the  sixteenth 
century  will  show." 

We  must  venture  to  differ  from  her  decision  when  she  gives 
to  Walter  Scott  a  "  strong  imagination."  We  are  inclined  to 
consider  his  characteristics  as  great  invention,  constructiveness, 
and  objectivity  of  dialogues.  Invention  is  the  mechanical  part 
of  imagination.  Imagination  includes  invention,  just  as  the 
idea  of  a  living  man  takes  in  the  physical  as  the  vehicle  of  the 
spiritual.  We  feel  inclined  to  say  that  invention  is  to  imagi 
nation  what  prose  is  to  poetry.  We  are  almost  ashamed  to 
quote  one  author  so  often  to  help  out  our  own  short-comings  of 
description,  but  Shakspeare  is  the  most  perfect  type  of  imagina- 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  311 

tion,  and  Scott  of  invention.  The  one  is  the  king  of  the  first 
class  of  intellect ;  the  other  the  indisputable  head  of  the  second 
class.  We  venture  to  say,  the  more  this  position  is  examined 
the  more  it  will  be  acknowledged. 

In  Shakspeare's  writings  it  will  be  seen  that  his  characters, 
whether  they  be  Hamlet,  Bottom,  Macbeth,  or  Slender,  are 
always  the  very  head  of  their  class,  the  very  poetry  of  their  na 
ture,  viz.  the  highest  individualization  possible  to  reach.  This 
intensity,  without  an  overstraining  or  even  apparent  effort,  is 
undoubtedly  the  reason  why  every  day  spreads  wider  the 
renown  of  the  great  dramatist :  it  is  like  a  circle  ever  extend 
ing.  It  is  also  a  singular  coincidence  with  nature  herself, 
whose  productions,  whether  a  star,  a  flower,  a  drop  of  water,  or 
an  animalcule,  challenge  the  most  elaborate  and  microscopical 
examination. 

We  do  not,  however,  quarrel  with  Miss  Fuller  for  her  con 
founding  invention  with  imagination  ;  we  merely  point  it  out  as 
a  simple  difference  of  opinion,  and  leave  the  public  to  decide 
the  point. 

Miss  Fuller's  poetry  partakes  of  her  independent  nature,  and 
offers  a  remarkable  contrast  to  that  sickly  and  insipid  verse  which 
has  of  late  years  inundated  the  reading  world. 

In  the  following  specimen  we  have  an  earnest  of  that  clear 
ness  of  thought  and  justness  of  diction  so  rare  in  poetry,  and 
more  especially  in  the  productions  of  female  writers. 

"  Farewell,  ye  soft  and  sumptuous  solitudes ! 
Ye  fairy  distances,  ye  lordly  woods, 
Haunted  by  paths  like  those  that  Poussin  knew, 
When  after  his  all  gazers'  eyes  he  drew : 


312  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

I  go, — and  if  I  never  more  may  steep 

An  eager  heart  in  your  enchantments  deep, 

Yet  ever  to  itself  that  heart  may  say, 

Be  not  exacting ;  thou  hast  lived  one  day ; 

Hast  looked  on  that  which  matches  with  thy  mood, 

Impassioned  sweetness  of  full  being's  flood, 

Where  nothing  checked  the  bold  yet  gentle  wave, 

Where  naught  repelled  the  lavish  love  that  gave. 

A  tender  blessing  lingers  o'er  the  scene, 

Like  some  young  mother's  thought,  fond,  yet  serene, 

And  through  its  life  new-born  our  lives  have  been. 

Once  more  farewell, — a  sad,  a  sweet  farewell ; 

And,  if  I  never  must  behold  you  more, 

In  other  worlds  I  will  not  cease  to  tell 

The  rosary  I  here  have  numbered  o'er ; 

And  bright-haired  Hope  will  lend  a  gladdened  ear, 

And  love  will  free  him  from  the  grasp  of  Fear, 

And  Gorgon  critics,  while  the  tale  they  hear, 

Shall  dew  their  stony  glances  with  a  tear, 

If  I  but  catch  one  echo  from  your  spell ; — 

And  so  farewell, — a  grateful,  sad  farewell !" 

There  is  no  attempt  at  grandiloquence  in  these  verses  ;  most  of 
those  we  have  read  on  the  same  theme  are  written  too  much  in  the 
"  Ercles  vein."  Poets  produce  g'reater  effect  by  simplicity  than 
by  those  turgid  words  which  are  too  frequently  mistaken  for 
fine  poetry. 

For  a  great  author  Coleridge  has  sinned  most  against  this 
law  in  his  "  religious  musings,"  and  even  in  that  magnificent 
anthem  to  Chamouni,  beginning 

"  Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star, 
So  long  thou  seemest  to  pause,"  &c. 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  313 

There  are  many  phrases  which  trench  upon  good  taste,  and 
overstep  the  modesty  of  Nature.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  when  a 
poet's  heart  is  not  in  his  subject,  by  the  number  of  gaudy 
epithets  and  elaborate  metaphors ;  the  effect  of  one  is  a  certain 
proof  of  the  absence  of  the  other. 

Great  effects  are  frequently  produced  by  the  simplest  words. 
Who  can  refrain  from  admiring  the  vividness  of  this  image 
from  Watts's  Hymns  ? 

"  For  Satan  trembles  when  he  sees 
The  weakest  sinner  on  his  knees !" 

This  has  always  appeared  to  us  as  suggestive  as  any  two  lines 
ever  written.  The  cowering  of  the  grand  monarch  of  abstract  evil 
before  a  penitent  is  a  noble  image.  The  very  attitude  of  humilia 
tion  to  God  being  the  overtowering  defiance  of  the  great  enemy  ! 

Of  a  similar  class  of  condensed  suggestiveness  is  the  line  in 
Green's  Poem  of  the  Spleen.  Alluding  to  the  efficacy  to  exer 
cise  in  that  complaint,  the  Poet  says, 

"  Throw  but  a  stone  the  Giant  dies  !" 

A  finer  allusion  to  the  combat  between  David  and  Goliah  has 
never  been  made.  Our  recollection  suggests  another  piece  of 
the  bold  sculpture  of  Thought,  by  a  few  dashes  of  the  chisel. 
It  is  from  Collins's  "  Ode  to  Fear." 

"  Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould, 

What  mortal  eye  can  fixed  behold  ? 

Who  stalks  his  round,  a  hideous  form, 

Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm, 

Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
'  Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep  /" 


314  8.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

It  is  needless  to  comment  on  the  two  last  lines  ;  there  is  a 
world  of  fear  in  the  simple  attitude. 

We  must  give  one  more  instance  of  the  felicitous  power  of  a 
few  words,  naturally  placed,  to  produce  a  great  idea.  Alluding 
to  the  fate  of  Richard  the  Second,  who  was  starved  to  death, 
Gray  says : — 

"  Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest." 

Our  space  will  not  allow  us  to  analyse  "  The  Women  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century."  It  is  the  less  necessary,  as  it  displays  the 
same  characteristics  as  Miss  Fuller's  other  writings. 

It  is  an  additional  evidence  of  her  freshness  of  mind,  and 
fearlessness  of  testifying  to  the  truth,  as  it  appears  to  her. 
However  unpalatable  and  strange  the  opinions  she  advocates 
now  appear,  we  feel  pretty  certain  every  year  will  bring  the 
world  nearer  to  their  recognition,  and  the  wonder  then  will  be 
how  any  rational  being  could  have  doubted  them. 

We  should  not  be  giving  a  complete  portrait  of  Miss  Fuller 
if  we  were  to  omit  noticing  her  capabilities  as  a  traveller,  and 
an  observant  visitor  of  foreign  lands ;  in  this  respect  her  letters 
to  the  "  Tribune"  are  admirable  specimens  of  observation.  We 
were  much  amused  at  the  humorous  hints  she  occasionally 
throws  out  on  the  distribution  of  labor  between  the  sexes. 
Lamb  had  the  same  notion  that  mankind  never  could  pretend 
to  any  "  gallantry,"  so  long  as  they  allowed  the  housemaids  to 
do  all  the  work.  Miss  Fuller  seems  inclined  to  turn  the  lords 
of  creation  into  washerwomen. 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  315 

"  The  Reform  Club  was  the  only  one  of  those  splendid  estab 
lishments  that  I  visited.  Certainly  the  force  of  comfort  can  no 
further  go,  nor  can  anything  be  better  contrived  to  make  dressing, 
eating,  news-getting,  and  even  sleeping  (for  there  are  bed-rooms  as 
well  as  dressing-rooms  for  those  who  will),  be  got  through  with  as 
glibly  as  possible.  Yet  to  me  this  palace  of  so  many  '  single  gen 
tlemen  rolled  into  one,'  seemed  stupidly  comfortable  in  the  absence 
of  that  elegant  arrangement  and  vivacious  atmosphere  which  only 
Women  can  inspire.  In  the  kitchen,  indeed,  I  met  them,  and  on 
that  account  it  seemed  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  building — though, 
even  there  they  are  but  the  servants  of  servants.  There  reigned 
supreme  a  genius  in  his  way,  who  has  published  a  work  on  Cookery, 
and  around  him  his  pupils — young  men  who  pay  a  handsome  yearly 
fee  for  novitiate  under  his  instruction.  I  am  not  sorry,  however,  to 
see  men  predominant  in  the  cooking  department,  as  I  hope  to  see 
that  and  washing  transferred  to  their  care  in  the  progress  of  things, 
since  they  are  '  the  stronger  sex.' 

"  The  arrangements  of  this  kitchen  were  very  fine,  combining 
great  convenience  with  neatness,  and  even  elegance.  Fourier  him 
self  might  have  taken  pleasure  in  them.  Thence  we  passed  into 
the  private  apartments  of  the  artist,  and  found  them  full  of  pictures 
by  his  wife,  an  artist  in  another  walk.  One  or  two  of  them  had 
been  engraved.  She  was  an  Englishwoman. 

"  We  also  get  a  glimpse,  returning  from  a  John  Gilpin  pilgrimage 
to  Edmonton,  of  the  residence  of  the  German  poet  Freiligrath. 

" '  Returning,  we  passed  the  house  where  Freiligrath  finds  a 
temporary  home,  earning  the  bread  of  himself  and  his  family  in  a 
commercial  house.  England  houses  the  exile,  but  not  without 
house-tax,  window-tax,  and  head-tax.  Where  is  the  Arcadia  that 
dares  invite  all  genius  to  her  arms,  and  change  her  golden  wheat 
for  their  green  laurels  and  immortal  flowers  ?  Arcadia — would  the 
name  were  America !' " 


316  8.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

Whenever  a  man  of  genius  speaks  to  the  public,  in  propor 
tion  as  he  is  true  to  his  own  nature  he  must  offend  theirs.  It 
is  not  possible  to  serve  God  and  mammon  :  equally  impossible 
is  it  to  preach  against  the  prevalence  of  error,  and  not  to  rouse 
the  priests  of  Baal,  and  their  crowds  of  believers.  This  has 
been  the  history  of  the  human  mind.  As  the  poet  says  : 

"  The  truth  for  which  some  great-souled  martyr  died 
In  the  past  age,  burned  and  crucified, 
Becomes  in  time  the  bigot's  sacred  creed, 
And  bids  in  turn  the  future  doubter  bleed !" 

Any  book  that  rouses  no  discussion  is  needless  ;  it  is  in  fact 
an  impertinence.  Why  stop  the  public  in  Broadway  to  tell 
them  what  they  know,  or  echo  some  old  opinion  ? 

It  is  evidently  the  wish  of  Miss  Fuller  to  join  issue  with  the 
common-place,  and  to  speak  out  her  own  nature  firmly,  though 
with  a  becoming  deference  to  the  old  worn-out  creeds  of  hu 
manity.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of  the  blindness  of  the  world, 
that,  although  it  owes  every  blessing  to  those  men  who  boldly 
in  bygone  times  spoke  out  new  opinions,  it  nevertheless  pre 
cisely  imitates  the  conduct  of  those  persecutors,  whom  they  are 
in  the  constant  habit  of  branding  as  bigoted  and  sanguinary 
fiends.  Do  these  shortsighted  human  bats  never  reflect  that  in 
a  few  years  their  own  children  will  be  compelled  to  regard 
them  in  the  same  odious  light  ?  Let  the  public  reflect  ere  they 
draw  down  the  anathema  of  posterity. 

These  remarks  have  been  forced  from  us  by  the  charge  we 
have  heard  brought  against  our  gifted  authoress  of  being  a 
socialist  and  a  sceptic  !  Of  all  egotisms  that  which  denies  to  an- 


S.      MARGARET      FULLER.  317 

other  the  right  of  forming  and  holding  an  opinion  either  in 
morals,  politics,  religion,  or  taste,  is  the  most  ignorant  and  dia 
bolical.  Were  it  not  for  the  fatal  effects  of  such  arrogance,  it 
would  be  too  ludicrous  for  anything  save  contempt ;  but  it  un 
fortunately  happens  that  the  innate  love  of  cruelty  which  so 
marks  man  from  the  rest  of  the  brute  creation,  is  enabled,  by 
appealing  to  this  egotism,  to  select  some  of  the  noblest  of  God's 
creatures  for  victims.  Man  is  cruel  by  nature  ;  it  is  reflection 
that  modifies  him  into  humanity.  A  modern  poet,  in  some 
verses,  has  made  a  parallel  between  a  cruel  boy  and  the 
grown-up  world.  Alluding  to  the  favorite  pastime  of  youth  to 
impale  an  insect  on  a  pin,  and  then  enjoy  its  flutterings,  he 
says : 

"  I  hardly  know,  dear  reader,  which  is  safer, 
To  be  a  genius  or  a  cockchafer !" 

The  slightest  reflection  must  convince  the  most  bigoted  per 
son  that  it  is  the  height  of  profanity  and  danger  to  deny  to  any 
man  his  birthright  of  thought.  In  the  first  place,  who  gave 
the  bigot  a  patent  to  act  the  Omniscient  on  earth  ?  He  is  as 
likely  to  be  wrong  as  his  fellow-man !  For  every  one  is 
equally  certain  that  he  is  right !  It  is  dangerous,  for  the  bigot 
becomes  responsible  for  the  faith  of  the  man  he  coerces  !  It  is 
profane,  because  the  bigot  usurps  the  throne  of  God,  to  whom 
we  are  alone  responsible  for  our  conscience  !  We  shall  not 
dwell  on  this  point,  for  those  who  refuse  assent  to  the  first  arti^ 
cle  of  freedom,  will  not  be  persuaded  though  "  one  rise  from 
the  dead  !"  We  cannot,  however,  help  one  closing  remark 
that  of  all  nations  the  American  ought  to  be  the  most  tolerant 

H 


318  S.      MARGARET      FULLER. 

since  it  owes  its  existence  to  those  noble-minded  men  who  fled 
from  persecution  to  find  freedom  and  toleration  in  the  New 
World ;  and  who,  in  after  years,  when  tyranny  followed  them 
to  their  new  home,  went  forth  to  battle,  and  with  the  pebble  of 
Truth  in  the  sling  of  Freedom  laid  low  at  their  feet  the  giant 
Goliah  of  the  world. 

We  conclude  our  notice  of  Miss  Fuller  by  confessing  that  she 
is  one  of  those  few  authors  who  have  written  too  little.  We 
hope  to  read  more  of  her  prose,  so  thoughtful  and  vigorous ; 
and  of  her  poetry,  at  once  so  graceful,  yet  so  strong  and  simple. 

We  regret  that  the  scope  of  this  volume  will  not  allow  us  to 
consider  her  as  a  politician.  In  this  character,  however,  she  is 
familiar  to  all  those  who  read  the  "  Tribune " — a  journal 
which  has  of  late  sullied  its  high  reputation  for  dignity  and  for 
bearance  by  indulging  in  personal  attacks,  and  suffering  itself  to 
be  converted  from  a  great  organ  of  truth  to  a  vehicle  of  indi 
vidual  malignity. 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  319 


MRS.    C.   M.    KIRKLAND. 


AMERICA  has  produced  few  women  superior  to  the  authoress 
of  "Western  Clearings,"  "A  New  Home,  Who'll  Follow?" 
"  Forest  Life,"  and  "  Holidays  Abroad."  There  is  a  clear,  bright 
intellect  displayed  in  her  writings  generally,  which  inevitably 
compels  us  to  respect  her  conclusions,  however  much  we  may 
differ  from  them.  This  we  do  in  many  points,  and  in  some  to 
a  great  extent. 

We  shall  commence  with  her  last  work,  "  Holidays  Abroad," 
and  present  to  our  readers  those  parts  which  seem  to  illustrate 
most  pointedly  those  peculiarities  which  constitute  the  indivi 
duality  of  Mrs.  Kirkland. 

Nature  seems  to  possess  the  faculty  of  the  kaleidoscope  in 
never  producing  the  same  aspect  twice.  However  much  men 
and  women  may  appear  to  resemble  each  other,  the  difference 
is  as  distinct  as  though  they  belonged  to  separate  races.  This 
is  a  conclusive  reason  why  a  man  of  intellect  never  despises  the 
lowest  of  his  fellow  creatures.  Every  one  is  an  undiscovered 
world,  infinitely  more  wonderful  than  a  new  planet.  When  we 
remember  into  how  few  elements  human  nature  is  resolved,  the 
imagination  is  not  capable  of  realizing  the  countless  variety  of 


320  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

individuals  produced  by  a  different  combination  of  the  pas 
sions.  We  may  illustrate  this  in  a  faint  degree  by  observing 
that  out  of  twenty-five  letters  Shakspeare  and  the  poets  have 
produced  all  those  marvellous  creations  which  constitute  the 
realm  of  thought. 

When  we  take  into  account  the  variety  of  human  passions, 
the  senses,  the  modifications  of  climate,  the  different  ages  of 
the  world,  the  disturbing  influences  of  creeds,  whether  of  religion, 
politics,  or  taste,  arid  then  multiply  all  these  by  the  countless 
accidents  of  circumstances,  we  shall  find  a  numerous  alphabet 
of  creative  facts  and  elements,  out  of  which  nature  can  form 
that  great  dictionary  of  men — the  human  race — that  wonder 
ful  language  of  which  every  word  is  a  living  and  immortal 
being. 

We  met  with  some  verses  lately  in  a  manuscript  poem,  which 
reverse  this  illustration.  Without  vouching  for  the  philosophy 
they  embody,  we  quote  them  : 

"  'Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,'  this  knells 
The  common  lot ;  but  it  is  ink  to  ink, 
Paper  to  paper,  pen  to  pen,  which  tells 

The  fate  of  those  who  sing,  and  those  who  think. 
The  poet  moulders  into  syllables, 
And  from  his  tomb  of  Russia,  silk,  or  calf, 
Still  makes  all  human  nature  weep  or  laugh." 

Mrs.  Kirkland  is  one  of  the  few  travellers  who  have  avoided 
the  old  stereotyped  plan  of  diluting  the  "  Guide  Book,"  and 
plagiarizing  the  "  Catalogues  of  Art."  In  her  preface  she  says  : 
"  I  was  obliged  to  make  a  compromise  with  modesty,  by  secretly 
vowing  to  resist  all  temptations  to  put  anything  in  my  book 


MRS.     C.     M.     KIRKLAND.  321 

which  could  be  suspected  of  an  intent  to  convey  information, 
properly  so  called  !  A  faithful  reading  of  Murray's  Guide 
Books  will  give  more  of  that  than  one  can  use." 

This  is  the  avowal  of  a  woman  of  a  superior  intellect,  a 
scorner  of  the  commonplace ;  and  it  is  infinitely  preferable  to 
have  the  impressions  left  on  such  a  mind  by  the  new  aspects 
continually  presented  to  her  by  foreign  countries,  than  a  tedious 
detail  of  the  statistics  of  the  places  she  has  visited. 

Our  fair  traveller's  enthusiasm  is  very  creditable  to  her  feel 
ings,  but  we  are  too  frequently  reminded  by  the  largeness  of 
her  admiration,  that  she  is  expressing  her  astonishment  rather 
than  her  critical  opinion. 

She  is  certainly  one  of  the  warmest  admirers  of  England  that 
it  has  been  our  fortune  to  meet.  How  truly  the  impulsive 
woman's  nature  is  shown  in  the  following  apostrophe! 

"  Who  shall  describe  the  exquisite  delight  with  which  the  land  is 
welcomed  at  the  termination  of  a  first  voyage  across  the  ocean ! 
To  see  mere  earth,  though  it  were  but  a  handful,  enough  to  smell 
and  to  feel,  were  something !  but  to  see  land,  and  know  that  it  is 
the  land  towards  which  your  curiosity,  gratitude,  and  affections, 
your  nursery  songs,  your  school  stories,  your  academic  education, 
your  studies  in  history,  your  whole  literary  experience,  have  been 
directing  and  drawing  you  from  your  cradle ;  to  see  before  you  the 
shores  of '  merry  England,'  the  country  of  Alfred,  and  old  Canute, 
and  Robin  Hood,  and  Mother  Goose — the  land  whose  Christmas 
and  Twelfth-night  revels  Washington  Irving  made  so  unspeakably 
fascinating  to  our  imagination — the  land  of  Shakspeare,  and  of 
Shakspeare's  creatures — the  only  Englishmen  of  the  ages  gone  as 
much  alive  now  as  they  ever  were ;  England !  the  country  to  which 
appertain  the  glorious  ages  of  Anne  and  Elizabeth,  and  the  splendid 


322  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

names  that  are  blazing  round  those  queens,  and  lending  them  a 
more  substantial  royalty  in  the  imaginations  of  men,  than  they  ever 
exercised  in  their  own  right;  England!  the  O/d-country,  the 
Mother-country — land  of  our  fathers — fountain  of  our  liberties — 
source  of  our  laws ;  from  whose  full  bosom  we  have  not  ceased  to 
draw  the  milk  of  gentle  letters,  though  we  spurned  her  maternal 
claim  to  rule  us ;  England !  the  home  of  the  noblest  race  earth  has 
ever  borne ;  the  scene  of  a  civilization  without  a  parallel  since  time 
was.  What  educated  American  can  first  see  the  coast  of  England, 
without  such  a  thrill  as  life  is  too  short,  and  the  heart  too  narrow, 
to  afford  many  as  keen,  and  deep,  and  universal !" 

After  the  discomforts  of  a  sea  voyage  we  can  well  understand 
the  exaggeration  of  sentimental  feeling  which  the  sight  of  land 
must  raise,  but  Mrs.  Kirkland's  philosophy  or  good  sense  ought 
to  save  her  from  presenting  this  magnified  appearance  as  a 
reality.  Admiration  and  enthusiasm  are  fearful  microscopes  ! 

She  possesses  the  power  of  presenting  in  a  few  words  those 
mental  sensations  which  so  many  have  felt,  but  so  few  have 
well  expressed.  How  truly  she  observes — "  When  we  stop  at 
Chester,  we  seem  to  have  plunged  at  once  into  some  crypt,  so 
subterranean  do  its  dark  streets  appear  after  the  riant  freshness 
of  the  country !" 

To  an  American  fresh  from  the  right-angular  streets  of 
Philadelphia  and  New  York,  we  doubt  not  the  queer,  old,  tum 
ble-down  gabled  houses  of  an  old  country  town  appeared 
strange.  We  are,  however,  somewhat  amused  at  her  consider 
ing  them  the  Father  of  Romance.  There  is  a  romance  to 
every  age,  and  it  springs  from  the  mind  and  not  from  the  mat 
ter  ;  from  men's  hearts  and  not  from  their  houses.  In  a  hun- 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  323 

dred  years  our  posterity  will  doubtless  smile  at  the  romantic 
chivalry  of  the  nineteenth  century,  although  it  would  now 
puzzle  the  shrewdest  observer  of  human  nature  to  find  anything 
resembling  it,  according  to  the  present  standard.  Railway 
speculations  in  a  few  centuries  may  be  considered  in  the  same 
light  as  the  Crusades  are  now,  and  an  act  of  generosity  may  be 
put  on  a  parallel  with  the  heroism  of  Curtius,  who  fell  into 
a  common  sewer,  or  of  Mucius  Scsevola,  who  burned  his 
fingers  at  King  Porsenna's  fire.  Many  antiquated  persons 
groan  over  the  alleged  decay  of  romance  and  poetry.  They 
would  have  done  the  same  had  they  been  living  in  the  days  of 
Sesostris,  Alexander  the  Great,  Robin  Hood,  Tom  Thumb,  or 
any  other  Gogs  and  Magogs  of  the  shadowy  and  fictitious 
past.  If  these  admirers  of  the  antediluvian  would  walk  face 
foremost,  and  use  their  eyes,  instead  of  turning  their  backs  upon 
the  future,  like  Moses  on  Pisgah,  looking  on  the  wilderness 
instead  of  towards  the  promised  land,  they  would  see  there  was 
more  romance  in  a  steam-engine  and  more  poetry  in  a  railway 
than  either  in  a  warrior  on  his  charger,  clad  in  complete  steel, 
or  in  a  bower  full  of  ladies,  listening  to  some  young  vagabond 
of  a  troubadour.  Every  age  grows  more  and  more  poetical  and 
romantic,  until  we  shall  reach  the  perfection  of  both  in  the 
world  to  come.  We  hope  this  assurance  will  comfort  Mrs. 
Kirkland,  and  its  realization  make  amends  for  the  inevitable 
demolition  of  the  tumble-down  houses  of  Chester.  We  will 
let  her  speak  for  herself. 

i  "  As  you  walk  the  streets  you  see  how  Romance  was  born  in 
England.  Instead  of  great  staring  rows  of  houses,  in  the  plan  of 
whose  fronts  all  shadow  is  excluded  as  if  it  were  death,  we  have 


' 


324  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

here  upper  stories  projecting  over  the  street,  or  in  default  of  these, 
deep  recesses  with  only  a  railing  in  front,  where  the  family  appear 
at  their  various  occupations  of  business  or  pleasure — mothers  get 
ting  their  children  ready  for  school,  maids  sweeping  and  dusting, 
and  the  like.  It  is  as  if  the  whole  second  story  were  drawn  back 
some  ten  or  twelve  feet,  leaving  a  shaded  parlor  without  a  front, — 
an  arrangement  so  contrary  to  the  modern  exclusiveness  which 
prompts  a  blank  white  linen  curtain  to  protect  even  the  backs  of  the 
chairs  from  the  view  of  the  passers-by,  that  we  felt  it  to  be  symbo 
lical  of  older  and  freer  and  more  natural  times.  Some  of  the 
people  we  saw  in  these  recesses  were  fit  for  pictures ;  and  one  old 
lady  whom  we  observed  as  she  appeared  to  be  dismissing  her  grand 
son  on  an  errand  with  many  cautions,  looked  and  moved  just  as 
people  do  on  the  stage,  in  character,  when  they  desire  to  seem  old 
and  quaint.  Indeed  we  see  now  where  the  old  style  of  stage- 
dresses  came  from — they  were  faithful  transcripts  of  real  life  in 
England.  We  had  supposed  the  monstrous  cap-border  surmounted 
by  a  red  bow,  the  gown  tucked  up  to  the  waist,  the  flounced  apron, 
the  short  sleeves  and  coarse  black  mitts,  the  length  of  black  ankle,  and 
the  high-heeled  shoe,  were  only  the  ideal  of  an  old  English  woman 
of  the  lower  class ;  we  find  them  here  on  the  very  woman  herself, 
as  she  moves  about  in  every-day  life.  The  picturesque  in  costume 
is  so  completely  unknown  in  our  country,  where  society  is  maca 
damized,  as  it  were,  that  the  peculiarities  and  individualities  of 
English  outer  life  form  a  perpetual  source  of  amusement  and  inte 
rest  for  us,  especially  in  these  older  country  towns.  Every  man, 
woman,  and  child,  seems  to  dress  without  the  least  reference  to  any 
body  else,  wearing  exactly  what  taste  or  convenience  may  dictate. 
We  are  inclined  to  hope  it  may  be  long  before  the  roller  of  fashion 
passes  over  them,  crushing  all  this  variety,  till  daily  life  resembles  a 
huge  skating-pond,  whose  only  inequality  of  surface  consists  in  the 
flourishes  cut  by  a  few  expert  skaters." 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  325 

She  abounds  with  little  bits  of  "  word-painting  "  which  are  very 
felicitous.  She  says,  "  We  asked  for  a  fire,  and  after  some  time 
were  served  with  a  smoke."  A  little  further  on  Mrs.  Kirkland 
makes  an  admission  which  lets  us  into  the  foundation  of  her 
romance.  Breakfast,  it  appears,  is  a  primary  element  therein : 

"  But  a  Coventry  breakfast  is  soon  dispatched,  so  we  made  our 
way  to  the  railway  station  in  good  time,  scarcely  waiting  to  admire 
the  really  pretty  old  town  as  we  passed.  It  is  wonderful  indeed 
that  a  bad  breakfast  can  so  starve  out  one's  romance ;  but  all  we 
shall  remember  of  Coventry  will  be  our  many  resolutions  of  never 
sending  any  of  our  friends  there." 

One  of  the  peculiarities  in  the  American  people  which  most 
surprises  an  Englishman  on  first  coming  among  them,  is  their 
perfect  familiarity  with  all  the  idioms  and  local  allusions  of  the 
old  country ;  their  intimate  acquaintance  also  with  their  poli 
tics  shows  an  infinite  superiority  of  knowledge  in  the  masses 
over  the  English  people.  They  may  not  possibly  have  so  many 
profound  scholars,  but  for  the  diffusion  of  practical  learning 
there  is  no  comparison  between  the  two  countries.  Mrs.  Kirk- 
land,  in  the  conclusion  to  the  above  quotation,  turns  her 
knowledge  of  old  English  proverbs  to  good  account. 

In  the  next  page  our  traveller  allows,  despite  her  admiration 
of  the  shell  of  romance,  viz.  the  tumble  down  houses  of  Ches 
ter — "  Any  attempt  to  reproduce  the  outward  semblance  of 
that  grand  old  style,  when  the  spirit  from  which  it  emanated 
has  departed,  has  a  would-be  air,  false  and  heartless :  no  nearer 
to  true  dignity  than  the  Chinese  villa  of  the  cit,  or  the  paste- 
diamonds  of  the  soubrette  !" 

14* 


326  MBS.      0.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

She  has  a  true  artist's  feeling  of  the  poetical  suggestiveness 
of  a  natural  ruin,  when  she  says : 

"  Kenilworth  is  all  the  hetter  and  more  satisfactory  view,  from 
there  heing  so  little  of  it,  comparatively.  There  are  just  land 
marks  enough  to  serve  the  purpose  of  fancy.  As  everything  is 
better  conveyed  or  expressed  hy  means  of  the  inherent  poetry  or 
philosophy  of  it,  so  is  the  Kenilworth  of  Elizabeth's  days  more 
completely  restored  to  us  by  these  few  remaining  towers  and 
walls,  than  it  could  have  been  if  every  battlement  were  standing 
unbroken;  as  witness  that  one  beautiful  gate-tower  so  nicely  fitted 
up  and  made  perfect,  which  excites  so  little  feeling  in  the  observer. 
Dilapidation  is  in  truth  a  voucher  for  the  reasonableness  of  our  in 
terest.  A  ruin  mended  up  is  a  vexatious  impertinence,  in  spite  of 
all  we  may  say  of  the  piety  of  the  thing.  Who  likes  to  look  upon 
rouge  and  brown  curls  on  the  octogenarian  ?" 

And  her  eye  for  artificial  scenery  is  displayed  when  she 
says  : 

"  English  landscape  has  a  minutely-finished  look ;  it  lacks  gran 
deur  ;  its  features  are  delicate,  and  the  impression  left  is  that  of 
softness  and  gentle  beauty.  The  grass  grows  to  the  very  rim  of 
the  water,  like  carpet  to  a  rich  drawing-room,  which  must  not  be 
tray  an  inch  of  unadorned  floor.  The  fields  are  rolled  to  a  per 
fect  smoothness;  the  hedges  look  as  if  they  had  no  use  but 
beauty ;  the  trees  and  multitudinous  vines  have  a  draperied  air,  arid 
strike  the  eye  rather  as  part  of  the  charming  whole  than  as  pos 
sessing  an  individual  interest.  We  have  seen  woodlands  in  the  far 
west  that  were  far  more  gracefully  majestic  than  any  we  have  yet 
seen  in  England ;  but  we  have  no  such  miles  of  cultured  and  close- 
fitted  scenery.  Nature  with  us  throws  on  her  clothes  negligently, 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  327 

confident  in  beauty ;  in  England  she  has  evidently  looked  in  the 
glass  until  not  a  curl  strays  from  its  fillet,  not  a  dimple  is  un 
schooled.  She  is  mise  a  quatre  epingles,  as  the  French  milliners 
say ;  but  how  lovely !" 

We  purposely  say  "  artificial  scenery,"  for,  with  a  few  excep 
tions,  there  is  scarcely  a  bit  of  uncultivated  nature  in  all  Eng 
land.  She  has  no  naked  scenery ;  it  has  all  been  dressed  up, 
put  into  special  attitudes,  and  grouped  so  as  to  form  the  best 
possible  "tout  ensemble."  It  has  no  more  real  nature  in  it 
than  a  garden,  to  which  it  is  so  often  compared :  like  a  little 
woman,  she  is  obliged  to  make  the  most  of  a  pretty  face  and 
agreeable  person,  by  the  elaboration  of  her  toilet,  the  judicious 
arrangement  of  her  ornaments,  and  the  elegance  of  her  man 
ners.  She  cannot  afford  to  have  a  curl  awry  or  a  ribbon  mis 
placed,  while  a  Patagonian  Venus  of  six  feet  or  so  can  afford 
to  leave  the  impression  to  her  stature. 

The  common-place  feeling  which  some  have  for  ruins  is  well 
illustrated  by  an  incident  related  by  a  gentleman  who  was  him 
self  the  happy  possessor  of  one.  Having  invited  some  antiqua 
rians  to  inspect  it,  he  told  his  steward  to  have  all  arranged  by 
the  day  in  question.  On  arriving  at  the  venerable  relic  of  the 
feudal  ages  they  were  astounded  by  the  modernization  it  had 
evidently  undergone :  it  was  elegantly  whitewashed,  carpets 
laid  down,  chairs  and  tables  placed,  and  some  curtains  hung  to 
give  a  snug  air  to  the  sublimity  in  question.  The  steward 
broke  the  speechless  astonishment  of  the  party  by  saying  : 
"Your  Lordship  must  allow  I  have  much  improved  their 
appearance,  and  made  them  decent !" 

To  return  to  Mrs.  Kirkland. 


328  MRS.      C.      M.     KIRKLAND. 

There  is  another  feature  in  her  criticism  which  we  admire, 
and  that  is  her  freedom  from  the  cant  of  classicality,  which  has 
had  so  fatal  an  influence  on  art  and  literature  over  all  the 
world.  We  were  delighted  to  meet  with  the  following  pas 
sage,  as  it  coincides  with  the  opinion  of  many  of  the  best  critics 
in  Europe. 

"  The  monuments  have  a  modern  air,  and  poor  Dr.  Johnson 
looks  particularly  forlorn,  with  nothing  on  hut  a  sheet,  as  if  he  had 
been  called  out  of  bed  by  the  cry  of  fire.  This  matter  of  drapery 
for  statues  becomes  a  subject  of  incessant  question  as  one  walks 
through  these  monumental  aisles.  The  wig  and  buckles  of  Dr. 
Johnson  would  not  certainly  be  very  classical ;  but  he  is  not  Dr. 
Johnson  without  them,  and  we  desire  nobody  else  as  we  stand 
near  his  grave.  The  equestrian  statue  of  George  III.,  which  the 
wits  say  is 

'  a  ridiculous  thing. 
All  horse-tail  and  pig-tail,  and  not  an  inch  of  king !' 

is  not  a  whit  more  ridiculous  than  the  figure  of  Dr.  Johnson  in  a 
costume,  or  non-costume,  which  would  have  been  odious  to  him 
while  living.  If  it  was  necessary  to  wind  him  in  a  sheet  he 
should  have  been  represented  as  dead,  and  so  unable  to  put  him 
self  in  more  proper  trim  for  sitting  to  the  artist." 

What  gives  such  an  interest  to  the  sculptured  forms  of  the 
old  crusaders,  as  they  lie  in  dim  cathedrals,  carved  in  com 
plete  mail,  but  the  exactness  of  the  resemblance?  What 
should  we  say  of  the  sculptor  of  that  time  had  he  put  them 
into  Roman  or  Turkish  costume  ?  The  artist  might  with  as 
much  propriety  change  the  features  as  the  dress  !  One  be- 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  329 

longs  to  the  man,  the  other  to  the  country  in  which  he  lived. 
The  combination  forms  the  complete  idea  of  the  individual 
which  was  to  be  demonstrated.  Looking  at  the  statues  of  cele 
brated  men  we  should  define  the  art  of  sculpture  to  be  invented 
for  the  express  purpose  of  disguising  them  from  the  knowledge 
of  posterity,  seeing  their  very  contemporaries  cannot  recognise 
them.  Barbarous  as  it  may  sound  we  must  exclaim,  Give  us 
the  pigtail  of  George  the  Third  in  preference  to  the  toga  of 
Samuel  Johnson  ! 

We  doubt  if  they  would  know  themselves  again  if  they 
looked  in  a  glass ;  more  especially  as  it  sometimes  happens 
that  a  man  who  is  dressed  in  a  manner  unlike  his  usual  style 
may  mistake  himself  in  the  glass  for  some  one  else.  Incre 
dible  as  it  may  appear,  we  know  this  happened  to  the  father  of 
a  very  popular  writer  of  the  low  school  of  literature. 

The  gentleman  in  question  volunteered  to  distribute  the 
playbills  on  the  night  of  a  grand  amateur  performance,  which 
was  given  for  the  benefit  of  an  institution  which  was  drooping 
for  want  of  funds.  While  he  was  busily  engaged  in  his  voca 
tion,  with  a  huge  bundle  of  the  aforesaid  prospectuses  in  his 
hand,  he  was  accosted  by  some  person  connected  with  the 
theatre  ;  turning  suddenly  round  he  was  astonished  by  observ 
ing  that  a  short,  stout  gentleman,  in  an  ample  white  waistcoat, 
was  standing  before  him  with  the  identical  bundle  of  papers  in 
his  hand.  Thinking  the  person  had  taken  them  from  him,  he 
demanded  in  an  angry  tone  :  "  What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  sir, 
by  taking  those  papers  from  me  ?"  A  narrower  inspection  con 
vinced  him  he  was  beginning  to  quarrel  with  his  own  image  in 
a  large  mirror,  which  he  had  not  previously  observed.  Some 


330  MRS.      C.     M.     KIRKLAND. 

bystanders  were  heartily  amused  at  this  novel  method  of  get 
ting  up  an  altercation. 

The  stout  gentleman  in  question  explains  it  away  by  stating 
that  he  was  very  busy,  that  he  had  no  idea  of  there  being  a 
looking-glass  so  near,  and  that  seldom  dressing  in  a  white 
waistcoat,  he  lost  for  a  minute  his  own  identity ;  hence  the  mis 
take,  which  principally  turned  upon  a  difference  in  costume.  His 
friends  consider  that  a  few  glasses  of  champagne  had  more  to 
do  with  it  than  the  looking-glass.  At  all  events,  if  it  takes 
so  little  to  prevent  a  man  recognising  himself,  we  may 
form  a  faint  idea  of  the  small  chance  our  posterity  have  when 
they  come  to  look  upon  us  under  the  almost  impenetrable  dis 
guise  of  a  classical  costume. 

While  we  are  on  the  subject  of  the  Amateur  Plays  we  may 
as  well  quote  an  apropos  passage  from  her  book,  which  seems 
to  countenance  the  current  belief  that  the  author  of  "  Pickwick" 
was  at  an  early  period  of  his  life  a  strolling  player. 

"  The  amateur  plays  came  off  finely.  Mark  Lemon,  Forster  of 
the  '  Examiner,'  Mr.  Dudley  Costello,  George  Cruikshank,  and 
Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  and  sundry  artists,  assisted ;  but  Mr.  Dickens 
was  all  in  all.  He  toiled  incessantly  in  the  cause,  and  was  the 
only  good  actor  in  the  company ;  for  although  great  correctness  of 
appreciation  was  evident,  the  lack  of  use  and  of  technical  knowledge 
chilled  parts  of  the  performance  very  much." 

The  sensitiveness  of  some  actors  to  any  allusion  respecting 
their  profession  is  very  remarkable.  We  were  told  by  a  friend 
who  was  present,  that  a  tragedian  celebrated  for  his  pride  and 
aversion  to  being  considered  an  actor,  was  grievously  vexed  one 
evening  at  a  dinner  party.  Seated  next  to  him  was  a  very 


MRS.      C.     M.     KIRKLAND.  331 

prosy  antiquarian,  who,  mistaking  our  Roscius  for  a  clergyman, 
by  the  solemnity  of  his  countenance,  began  a  long  argument  on 
the  "  stat  nominis  umbra"  of  Junius.  After  some  discussion  he 
quoted  the  old  story  of  the  king  sending  secretly  for  Garrick, 
to  request  his  vigilance  in  discovering  who  the  great  unknown 
was.  "  Singular  enough"  (quoth  the  antiquarian  to  the  actor) 
"just  as  Garrick  was  about  to  commence  his  performance,  a 
note  was  given  to  him  couched  in  words  like  these,  and  signed 
Junius  : — "  So  the  tyrant  has  commanded  you  to  find  out  who 
I  am  !  Mark  me,  vagabond" — at  this  word  the  narrator,  look 
ing  solemnly  in  the  other's  face,  said,  "  alluding  to  his  profession 
as  an  actor,  which,  by  the  statutes  of  England,"  &c.  <fec.  The 
ghastly  face  of  the  tragedian  may  well  be  imagined. 

We  gladly  quote  another  morcel  of  genuine,  honest  criticism, 
in  her  estimate  of  Jenny  Lind.  It  shows  that  although  our 
fair  writer  can  be  misled  by  her  own  feelings,  she  is  determined 
not  to  be  led  captive  by  a  popular  cry. 

"  London  is  like  a  nest  of  singing-birds  just  now.  Jenny  Lind, 
Alboni,  Grisi,  and  half  a  dozen  more  of  only  less  note  are  trilling  and 
twittering  somewhere  every  night.  The  ecstatics  are  reserved  for 
Jenny,  whose  very  faults  are  exalted  to  the  skies  as  peculiar,  individual 
excellences.  She  is  a  very  fascinating  little  syren,  certainly  ;  and  we 
can  hardly  blame  the  young  men  for  falling  in  love  with  her  graces 
and  prettiness,  which  so  set  off  and  appreciate  her  sweet  singing. 
But  take  the  singing  alone,  and  as  a  whole,  it  is,  as  an  artistic  perfor 
mance,  far  inferior  to  some  others ;  though  in  certain  tours  de  force 
Jenny  is  unrivalled  as  yet.  When  she  crosses  her  arms  on  her 
breast,  raises  her  pretty  shoulders,  fixes  her  eyes  intensely  on  the 
audience,  and  gives  forth  a  sustained  note,  higher  in  the  clouds  than 


332  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

human  organs  could  be  expected  to  reach,  we  confess  her  power, 
and  assent  to  all  that  her  warmest  admirers  insist  on.  But  the 
quality  of  her  voice  is  comparatively  poor ;  it  does  not  compare  in 
roundness  and  melody  with  Alboni's  or  with  Castellan's,  who  has 
one  of  the  best  natural  organs  I  have  ever  heard ;  while  in  scien 
tific  training  Grisi  is  infinitely  superior.  Jenny's  reputation  is 
made  up  of  many  kinds  of  material,  among  which  the  gentle  sweet 
ness,  and  real  kindness  and  simplicity  of  her  character,  bear  their 
part.  She  has  a  pretty  place  at  Brompton,  which  she  calls  home ; 
and  one  of  her  neighbors  there  assured  me  that  she  was  an  angel 
of  goodness.  This  character,  her  youth,  her  pleasant  face  and  deli 
cate  appearance,  all  contribute,  probably,  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
public.  Poor  Grisi,  so  long  a  reigning  favorite,  is  now  convicted 
of  the  crime  of  growing  old,  and  sings  to  scant  houses,  though  she 
is  a  good  actress,  which  Jenny  will  never  be. 

"  Mademoiselle  Alboni  is  two  Jenny  Linds  rolled  into  one,  for 
size  of  body,  and  power,  fand  volume  of  voice.  She  reminds  me 
a  good  deal  of  our  old  favorite  Pico,  who  was  never  fully  appre 
ciated  in  New  York." 

Although  we  strongly  suspect  that  some  person  has  been 
hoaxing  Mrs.  Kirkland  with  the  following  story,  we  cannot  help 
quoting  it  as  a  good  illustration  of  that  instinct  wnich  tells 
a  crowned  head  that  literature  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  all 
superstitions,  however  popular  they  may  be  : 

"  We  were  amused  to  hear  that  the  Queen  of  England  does  not 
like  literary  people ;  that  she  excludes  them  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  Court ;  and,  in  fact,  considers  having  produced  a  book  as  equiva 
lent  to  loss  of  caste.  A  person  who  had  by  dint  of  great  science  and 
ingenuity  perfected  a  plan  by  means  of  which  the  public  interest 
was  essentially  benefited,  embodied  the  result  of  his  studies  in  a 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  333 

book,  highly  esteemed  by  the  critics  and  the  public.  It  was  pro 
posed  by  a  certain  lady  at  Court  to  present  this  gentleman,  on  the 
strength  of  his  merit ;  but  the  Queen  absolutely  declined  receiving 
him,  because  of  his  literary  character.  Some  one  suggested  that  he 
had  served  with  honor  in  the  army,  upon  which  ground  her  Majesty 
consented  to  receive  him.  But  the  gentleman  very  properly  declined 
appearing  at  Court  on  these  terms ;  so  that  her  Majesty  was,  after 
all,  the  only  person  presented  in  the  affair.  (Somebody  says,  there 
is  hardly  a  magistrate  that  does  not  commit  himself  twice  as  often 
as  he  commits  any  one  else.)  But  the  Queen  is  only  proving  her 
legitimacy ;  for  who  ever  heard  of  one  of  her  family  as  a  patron, 
or  even  an  admirer  of  literature  T 

We  have  the  authority  of  one  of  the  poet's  own  family  for 
saying  that  Queen  Victoria,  the  head  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
bad  never  beard  of  Wordsworth  till  he  was  proposed  to  ber 
for  Poet-Laureate,  on  the  death  of  Southey. 

If  this  be  really  the  fact,  it  seems  only  fair  to  infer  that  Her 
Majesty  bas  bad  no  education  at  all,  for  it  evidences  so  deep  an 
ignorance  of  other  branches  of  learning,  besides  Belles-Lettres. 
It  is  scarcely  possible  to  read  a  dozen  volumes  without  some 
allusion  to  the  great  philosophical  poet  of  the  day,  or  else  some 
quotation  from  his  writings.  A  committee  of  the  House  of 
Lords  should  be  formed  to  inquire  into  this  point.  We  recom 
mend  Lord  Brougham  to  follow  up  our  suggestion. 

Mrs.  Kirkland's  boldness  we  have  before  spoken  of  in  terms 
of  commendation.  But  what  will  the  female  aristocracy  of 
England  say  to  this  ? 

"  With  a  strong  prepossession  in  favor  of  English  beauty,  and  a 
notion  that  such  an  occasion  as  that  of  the  drawing-room  would 


334  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

afford  a  fine  field  for  the  display  of  it,  we  have  been  disappointed 
in  our  search.  Very  few  of  the  ladies  we  saw  were  more  than 
comely  ;  a  large  proportion  fell  behind  even  that.  One  beautiful 
woman  there  was,  whom  we  were  led  to  suppose  to  be  the  Mar 
chioness  of  Douro,  though  we  could  not  ascertain  it.  We  were 
told  that  that  lady,  daughter-in-law  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
and  the  Duchess  of  Argyll,  daughter  of  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland, 
were  the  only  conspicuously-beautiful  women  about  the  Court." 

We  would  advise  her  not  to  put  herself  into  the  power  of  the 
infuriated  "  graces "  of  the  British  nobility.  It  is  said  that  a 
profound  judge  of  the  female  heart  was  told  that  two  ladies  of 
his  acquaintance  had  quarrelled  and  abused  each  other  so  vio 
lently  that  a  reconciliation  was  deemed  hopeless  !  "  Did  they 
call  each  other  ugly  ?"  said  he.  "  No,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  's 
all  right — they  '11  soon  make  it  up,"  was  the  emphatic  answer, 
and  it  proved  so.  Mrs.  Kirkland  has,  therefore,  no  chance  of 
pardon  !  We  also  feel  for  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  and  the 
Marchioness  of  Douro !  Conspiracies  will  be  hatched  forthwith 
against  their  beauty  !  Possibly  the  fact  of  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland  being  an  extensive  grandmother  may  plead  in  her 
behalf,  but  the  lovely  young  Marchioness  is  doomed.  It  is  not 
the  first  time  that  the  latter  has  been  the  cause  of  a  deadly  re 
port.  Her  maiden  name  was  Lady  Elizabeth  Hay.  When 
Lord  Douro  was  courting  her  the  wits  said,  that,  like  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  be  had  got  the  "  Hay  Fever  !" 

Our  readers  must  hold  Mrs.  Kirkland  responsible  for  this  bit 
of  gossip,  for  mentioning  Lady  Douro  ! 

The  conventional  elegance  of  the  woman  is  sometimes  too 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  335 

strong  for  her  kind  heart  and  vigorous  common  sense,  as  wit 
ness  this  rhapsody : 

"  I  can  never  forget  the  view  in  Kensington  Gardens,  as  we  stood 
on  one  side  of  the  water,  and  looked  far  through  the  ancient  groves 
upon  snatches  of  rich  sky  beyond.  The  walks  were  alive  with 
children  and  their  attendants ;  hoys  were  launching  their  gay  boats 
upon  the  water,  and  watching  their  progress  as  the  wind  wafted 
the  tiny  sails  here  and  there.  Other  boats  were  there,  larger,  for 
they  held  men ;  but  still,  more  like  the  most  delicate  of  the  sea- 
shells  than  like  boats  of  mortal  mould.  Below,  Hyde  Park  was 
full  of  elegant  equipages  and  equestrians,  as  well  as  throngs  of 
people  on  foot;  and  that  famous  statue  of  the  Duke,  which 
afforded  *  Punch '  material  for  so  many  good  jokes,  stood  out  fair 
against  the  sky,  overtopping  the  arched  gateway  towards  Picca 
dilly,  making,  at  least  to  those  who  associate  it  with  the  great 
events  of  1815,  no  undignified  feature  hi  the  landscape.  Then  on 
every  side  are  palaces,  and  more  parks,  and  more  trees,  and  more 
water,  and  more  people.  A  lovelier  or  more  exciting  circle  of  vi 
sion  I  do  not  expect  to  enjoy  in  this  life,  though  Fate  should  lead 
me  to  the  top  of  the  Himmalehs,  or  to  that  'peak  of  Darien'  from 
which  Cortes  and  his  men  '  stared  at  the  Pacific  !'  A  sense  of  the 
majesty  of  human  life  and  human  ability — of  the  goodness  of  God, 
and  the  accountability  of  man — filled  my  thoughts,  and  inspired  my 
imagination  as  I  gazed.  Not  but  some  painful  considerations 
found  place  too — not  but  I  was  ever  conscious  of  the  truth,  that 
much  of  this  splendor  is  the  result  of  an  unjust  and  oppressive  ine 
quality  of  condition,  in  this  land  so  favored  of  Heaven.  I  felt  all 
this ;  but  the  scene  as  it  was  made  an  indelible  impression,  and  I 
shall  ever  think  of  it  as  a  model  of  what  may  be  done,  and,  in  our 
own  country  at  least,  without  any  of  the  attendant  evils  which 


336  MRS.      C.      M.     KIRKLAND. 

seem  but  too  pertinaciously  to  dog  the  steps  of  whatever  is  best 
and  most  glorious  in  England,  and  especially  in  London." 

It  is  not  of  Kensington  Gardens  or  of  the  parks,  that  an 
American  should  think  when  writing  of  the  British  Empire ; 
they  are  but  a  small  and  artificial  part.  Let  them  be  contrasted 
with  the  coal  mines  of  Barnsley,  where  men  and  women  work 
naked,  and  where  little  children  crawl  on  all-fours,  harnessed  to 
cars  like  the  brutes  of  the  fields  ;  or  else  with  Spitalfields,  where 
the  weavers  may  all  pray  that  God  had  made  them  silkworms 
instead  of  men-worms  !  This  is  trie  reverse  of  the  medal,  and 
no  writer  should  dare  to  give  an  impression  of  one  side  without 
the  likeness  of  the  other. 

Let  the  Americans  thank  God  heartily  for  all  their  blessings, 
but  above  all  that  they  have  no  grandeur  so  appalling  as  that 
of  England.  While  we  are  in  the  fault-finding  vein  with  Mrs. 
Kirkland,  let  us  name  that,  for  a  lady  of  the  land  of  equality, 
there  are  occasional  ebullitions  of  an  artificial  elevation  we  did 
not  expect  to  meet  with  in  an  American  and  a  republican. 
We  must  excuse  it  on  the  ground  of  her  having  been  above  a 
month  in  the  old  country.  How  true  it  is,  "  English  commu 
nication  corrupts  American  manners  !" 

"  My  dislike  is  to  the  class,  rather  than  to  any  particular  speci 
men  of  it.  My  objections  relate  principally  to  the  disgustingness 
of  such  a  presence  at  a  time  when  one  would  possess  one's  soul ; 
the  perpetual  vicinity  of  a  vulgar  mind  when  the  very  zest  of  the 
moment  lies  in  forgetting  all  vulgar  things ;  the  ceaseless  iteration 
of  threadbare  common-places,  while  the  best  powers  of  memory 
are  tasked  to  call  up  its  most  precious  hoardings.  At  first  the  in- 


MRS.      C.     M.      KIRKLAND.  337 

trusive  gabble  was  the  great  annoyance ;  but  the  time  came  when 
the  mere  sight  of  that  intensely  meaningless  face  seemed  always  to 
find  a  bare  nerve  ;  and  in  the  very  Vatican  I  was  more  sensible  of 
his  presence  than  of  that  of  the  Apollo,  on  which  he  stood  com 
menting  in  a  way  that  made  one  feel  wicked.  I  appeal  to  any  rea 
sonable  soul  for  sympathy  under  such  an  annoyance  as  this.  '  Ver 
fine  ting  dat !  Tres  bien !  ah !  ver  fine  ting  1  Two  tousand  year 
old!  Dieu!  qu'il  fait  chaud!'  and  so  on  and  on  and  on — con 
tinual  dropping. 

"  We  feel  it  essential  to  be  rid  of  the  presence  of  servants  when 
we  would  enjoy  conversation  at  home,  yet  we  provide  for  their 
constant  presence  when  we  go  abroad  for  the  highest  kind  of  intel 
lectual  pleasure.  A  courier  is  at  once  more  and  less  than  a  ser 
vant  ;  his  position  is  held  to  excuse  both  servility  and  insolence, 
and  while  he  receives  the  wages  of  a  lackey  he  takes  the  airs  of  a 
companion." 

Mrs.  Kirkland  devotes  six  mortal  pages  to  abolish  the  race  of 
couriers !  She  advises  everybody  to  learn  French  instead  ! 
This  is  a  charming  puff  for  the  professors  of  the  polite  tongue. 
We  are  inclined  to  think  it  would  considerably  diminish  the 
number  of  travellers  I 

We  remember  in  our  youth  there  was  a  great  prejudice  in 
England  against  the  study  of  French.  Some  did  not  hesitate 
to  attribute  the  growth  of  infidelity  and  rebellion  to  the  use  of 
that  language  in  which  Fenelon  and  Massillon  had  written. 
Not  long  ago  a  worthy  old  grandmother  of  a  friend  labored  un 
der  the  trifling  delusion  that  nobody,  not  even  a  French  person, 
was  such  a  fool  as  not  to  understand  English,  more  especially 
if  it  was  spoken  very  loudly  and  distinctly.  She  caused  no  little 
merriment  one  day  by  an  attempt  to  put  her  theory  in  practice, 


338  MRS,      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

Her  daughters,  who  were  well-educated  women  and  spoke 
French,  had  been  expecting  a  governess  from  Paris  who  did 
not  speak  a  word  of  English.  During  their  absence  one  after 
noon  the  young  foreigner  arrived,  a  very  pretty,  timid  Parisian 
girl,  of  about  eighteen.  The  old  lady,  who  knew  of  her  coming, 
was  anxious  to  be  very  kind  to  her,  and,  seeing  she  looked 
fatigued,  resolved  to  persuade  her  to  take  a  cup  of  strong  tea, 
which  she  naturally  concluded  would  refresh  her  amazingly. 
She  therefore  rang  her  bell,  and  ordered  her  servant  to  bring 
up  the  teakettle,  which  speedily  made  its  appearance,  bright  as 
the  copper  sun  and  hissing  like  a  serpent  letting  off  its  venom. 
When  all  was  prepared  the  simple-minded  old  lady  com 
menced  the  conversation  by  saying  to  the  French  damsel  that 
she  had  better  have  a  cup  of  tea.  The  poor  girl  looked  bewil 
dered,  not  understanding  a  word  the  other  said.  You  had 
better  have  a  cup  of  tea,  it  will  do  you  good  !  A  vague  look  of 
ignorance  was  the  reply.  The  hostess  resolved  to  put  on  a  greater 
power  of  French,  so  emphasizing  every  word,  and  speaking 
very  loud,  she  said  :  You — had — better — have — a  cup — of  tea. 
This  not  being  attended  with  any  better  success,  the  "  tea-per 
suader  "  resolved  to  suit  the  action  to  the  Avord,  so  arming  her 
self  with  the  resplendent  and  steam-emitting  kettle,  she  bran 
dished  it  emphatically  in  the  other's  face,  accompanying  this  pan 
tomimic  action  with  :  "  It — will — do — you — good !"  in  a  louder 
and  louder  tone.  The  poor  creature  began  now  to  grow  alarmed, 
fearing  the  old  lady  was  a  maniac.  She  therefore  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  kept  retreating  before  the  benevolent  but  ener 
getic  kettle-holder,  and  was  commencing  a  loud  scream,  when 
the  door  opened  and  the  two  daughters  entered  and  explained 


MRS.      C.      M.     KIRKLAND,  339 

the  whole  difficulty.  We  are  afraid  more  serious  disasters  than 
this  would  flow  from  following  out  Mrs.  Kirkland's  theory  in 
strange  lands  without  couriers. 

Passing  from  this  digression,  we  observe  our  fair  friend  in 
another  light — that  of  a  politician ;  and  here  she  shows  her 
characteristic  sagacity. 

"It  must  be  allowed  that  soldiers,  puppets  as  they  are,  add 
much  to  the  mere  display  of  such  occasions,  and  the  presence  of 
the  various  military  bands  is  very  enlivening ;  but  when  we  think 
of  our  French  brethren  as  being  in  the  midst  of  a  noble  struggle 
for  liberty,  and  desirous  of  founding  their  Republic  on  immutable 
principles,  these  soldiers  are  the  most  discouraging  sight  that  meets 
our  eyes.  We  are  told  that  it  would  be  exceedingly  unsafe  for 
France  to  be  unarmed  in  the  midst  of  the  nations  of  Europe,  who 
would  be  very  likely  to  take  advantage  of  her  defenceless  state ; 
but  without  quoting  the  pacific  wisdom  of  Mr.  Cobden,  who  repu 
diates  this  barbarous  and  degrading  notion,  we  reply,  that  no  re 
public  founded  upon  military  force  will  stand.  The  idea  of  a  re 
public  is  the  result  of  the  general  progress  of  the  world,  which  has 
outlived  the  monarchical  age  ;  further  progress  will  as  surely  leave 
behind  the  idea  of  brute  force.  We  shall  never  see  a  permanent 
government  until  we  see  one  absolutely  Christian.  Christianity  is 
immutable,  uncompromising;  and  He  who  has  said  that  by  it  alone 
the  world  shall  be  saved,  will  surely  overturn,  and  overturn,  and 
overturn,  till  mankind  shall  submit  in  truth,  as  they  now  do  in  pro 
fession,  to  the  rule  of  Christ. 

"  Here  lies  our  chief  fear  for  the  new  French  Republic.  The 
accursed  military  spirit,  which  has  been  inbred  in  the  people  for 
generations,  is  still  predominant;  the  bayonet  may  be  wreathed 
with  flowers,  but  it  glitters  through  them ;  and  the  world  applauds 


340  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

the  folly  under  the  name  of  prudence.  The  men  whose  counsels 
have  prevailed,  though  wise  and  good,  are  not  in  advance  of  their 
age,  as  were  the  founders  of  our  Republic.  Their  sentiments  are 
fine  in  the  way  of  poetry,  generosity,  bravery ;  but  fall  far  short  of 
Christian  principle,  which  recognises  no  modifying  power  in  expe 
diency,  declines  all  compromise  with  the  spirit  of  the  world,  sees 
no  safety  but  in  a  rigid  adherence  to  the  law  and  to  the  testimony. 
Our  hopes  prophesy  the  best  for  France ;  our  fears  have  been  in 
creased  by  a  visit  to  Paris  at  this  juncture.  Every  third  man  is  a 
soldier ;  you  are  waked  in  the  morning  by  the  beat  of  the  drum 
and  the  trumpet  of  cavalry ;  in  every  street  is  a  corps  de  garde ;  if 
you  ask  the  name  of  a  fine  building,  ten  to  one  you  are  told  it  is  a 
caserne  (barrack)  or  a  military  hospital.  The  public  reliance  is 
not  on  wisdom,  on  virtue,  on  justice,  on  the  spirit  of  peace ;  but  on 
fighting,  a  quickness  to  resent,  and  ability  to  revenge  an  injury. 
Herein  is  fatal  weakness. 

"  The  French  are  a  nation  of  sentiments.  Words  are  things  to 
them." 

All  this  is  politically  true,  no  doubt,  and  we  echo  the  calm, 
common-sense  method  of  her  reasoning.  But  in  the  following 
description  of  Rachel's  acting,  we  have  a  piece  of  painting  as 
fine  a  composition  as  one  of  the  old  masters.  It  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  convey  the  image  more  perfectly  to  the  mind  than  she 
has  done  in  her  simple  but  well-arranged  phrases. 

"  But  the  most  striking  thing  of  this  kind  is  the  singing  of  the 
Marseillaise  by  Mademoiselle  Rachel,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  her 
audiences.  She  appears  after  the  tragedy,  in  the  simplest  possible 
tragic  drapery,  majestic  in  simplicity;  the  voice  is  nothing,  as  a 
voice,  but  her  declamation  of  the  hymn  is  sublime.  Her  eye,  her 
tones,  her  gestures,  are  passionate  in  the  extreme;  and  at  eaoh 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  341 

refrain  she  becomes  a  Pythoness,  and  her  audience  is  spell-bound 
until  the  last  word,  when  they  burst  forth  in  acclamations  that  rend 
the  skies.  For  the  last  stanza  she  grasps  the  tri-color ;  she  kneels 
before  it ;  she  clasps  it  to  her  bosom  ;  she  waves  it  with  a  frantic 
eagerness ;  and  she  carries  her  hearers  with  her  throughout.  It  is 
a  perfectly  unique  exhibition,  and  one  which  only  a  Rachel  could 
make  sublime,  instead  of  ridiculous.  Rachel  is  born  for  tragedy, 
and  nothing  else.  We  cannot  possibly  conceive  of  her  ordering 
breakfast  or  cheapening  a  bonnet.  A  strictly  classical  drapery  is 
her  only  wear,  and  she  scorns  the  aid  of  silks  aud  spangles,  and 
even  of  point  lace  and  diamonds.  Without  being  handsome,  sbe 
fascinates  the  eye;  perhaps  she  is  scarcely  even  graceful;  but  her 
pose  is  perfect,  and,  when  passion  throws  her  into  attitudes  of  such 
abandon  as  would  certainly  result  in  fatal  awkwardness  in  less  per 
fectly  artistic  hands,  she  is  sure  to  recover  herself  without  any 
apparent  effort,  and  without  a  moment's  break  in  the  action.  Thin 
to  a  fault,  she  is  yet  more  like  a  statue  than  like  a  living  woman,  so 
completely  is  want  of  fulness  of  outline  made  up  by  taste  in  cos 
tume,  and  classic  perfection  of  attitude.  Rachel  is  not  so  much  an 
actress  as  a  great  artist.  Her  voice  is  low,  almost  hoarse  ;  but  it 
is  heard  distinctly,  even  in  a  whisper.  Her  power  is  intellectual 
and  sympathetic;  it  seems  hardly  subject  to  rules;  yet  we  can 
not  doubt  that  it  is  the  result  of  intense  study.  The  Parisians  ap 
preciate  her,  and  listen  with  breathless  interest  to  speeches  long 
enough  to  tire  any  audience  less  accustomed  to  French  tragedy.  It 
is  observable,  however,  that  Rachel,  and  other  finished  performers, 
have  a  way  of  hastening  through  those  interminable  speeches  quite 
different  from  the  declamatory  style  of  our  school-days,  when  we 
gave  the  '  Madame  !'  and  '  Seigneur !'  with  such  dignified  emphasis. 
Rachel  recites  those  passages  in  a  tone  almost  of  domestic  fami 
liarity.  When  she  persuades,  she  uses  not  the  theatrical  but  the 
family  tone  of  persuasion;  when  she  scolds,  she  does  it  as 

15 


342  M  U  S  .      C  .      M  .      K  I  R  K  L  A  N  D  . 

naturally  as  can  be,  whether  the  sufferer  be  husband  or  papa.  She 
has  no  stage  tricks ;  takes  no  care  of  her  braids  or  of  her  train, 
does  not  seem  to  know  there  is  an  audience  in  the  house,  even 
when  they  applaud  her  to  the  echo  ;  and  is,  4n  short,  the  perfect 
artist  who  conceals  all  art.  I  class  an  evening  with  Rachel  among 
the  grand  things  of  Europe,  and  her  singing  of  the  Marseillaise  as 
almost  the  grandest  thing  she  does." 

We  have,  however,  not  space  to  follow  our  authoress  through 
her  tour,  which  is  more  valuable  for  the  impression  it  records 
than  for  what  she  saw.  We  sh.-ill  therefore  conclude  our  notice 
of  this  part  of  her  mental  history  by  saying  that  she  has  formed 
— so  far  as  our  experience  goes — a  very  fair  estimate  of  the 
difference  between  the  two  grand  divisions  of  the  Anglo-Saxons, 
the  English  •  and  the  Americans.  How  often  have  we  heard 
the  conversations  which  compel  intelligent  and  impartial 
lookers  on  to  form  this  conclusion  ! 

"  Repudiation  is  but  a  minor  item  in  the  list  of  excuses  for  dis 
like;  and  if  it  could  be  visited  upon  those  to  whom  it  properly 
belongs,  we  should  have  nothing  to  say.  But  to  insist,  on  charging1 
it  upon  the  whole  United  States  is  simply  a  piece  of  stolid  ill-temper. 
The  English  are,  to  be  sure,  proverbially  slow  in  the  reception  of 
foreign  ideas,  and  doggedly  set  against  the  value  of  new  ones  ;  but 
they  could  easily,  if  they  were  desirous  of  doing  justice,  come  at 
some  notion  of  the  nature  of  our  confederacy,  and  our  State  inde 
pendence;  and  so  lay  repudiation  at  its  proper  door,  instead  of 
pretending  to  consider  it  the  bantling  of  republicanism.  But  they 
are  peculiarly  sensitive  in  the  region  of  the  pocket,  and  as  they  can 
only  get 'three  or  four  per  cent,  for  money  at  home,  it  must  doubt 
less  have  been  a  cruel  disappointment  to  find  that  there  was  any 
uncertainty  attending  the  reception  of  ten  or  twenty  from  us.  We 
ought  to  feel  very  patient  under  their  anger  about  repudiation." 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAN13.  343 

We  cordially  call  the  attention  of  American  legislators  to 
what  their  clear-headed  countrywoman  says  about  International 
Copyright. 

"  With  regard   to   that  particular   sort  of  national   dishonesty 
which  systematically  appropriates  other  men's  property  and  means 
of  living,  because  it  happens  to  be  of  a  kind  easily  stolen,  I  con 
fess  to  an  humbled  silence  under  British  objurgation.     If  anybody 
thinks  that  to  write  and  publish  a  book  which  others  read,  is  not 
creating  a  property  on  which  the  author  has  a  right  to  depend  as  a 
means  of  subsistence,  I  cannot  agree  with  him ;  and  I  have  never 
yet  seen  an  argument  on  the  subject  which  convinced  me  that  it 
was  less  dishonest  to  steal  a  book  than  a  pair  of  shoes.     If  an 
author  has  no  right  to  live  by  his  works,  a  clergyman  can  have  no 
claim  on  account  of  his  public  teaching,  or  a  legislator  because  he 
devotes  his  time  to  debate  and  the  preparation  for  it.     People  who 
perform  intellectual  labor  must  form  the  single  exception  to  the 
law   which    appoints    that  men  shall  enjoy  that  place  in    society 
to   which   their   ability   and   industry    entitle    them.     So    absurd 
an   idea  I   cannot  advocate,  even  for  the  sake  of  defending  the 
land  I  love   against  the  angry  taunts  of  our  English  neighbors. 
They  are  right  in  despising  the  moral  coarseness  which  can  think  a 
wrong   justified  by  the  ease  with  which  it  can  be   perpetrated. 
They  are  quite  right  in  feeling  that  the  American  people  ought  not 
to  be  willing  to  be  amused  and  instructed  without  rendering  some 
equivalent,  merely  because  the  creditor  is  so  placed  that  he  has  uo 
power  to  collect  his  dues.     All  that  the  American  in  England  can 
say,  when  the  sore  subject  is  mentioned,  is,  that  he  hopes  the  day  for 
such  meanness  is  passing  away.     A  higher  general  cultivation,  and 
a   nobler  appreciation  of  the  blessings  and  claims  of  mind,  will 
undoubtedly  set  us  right  on  this  subject.     May  the  time  be  not  far 
distant !" 


344  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

We  now  turn  from  this  well- written  work  to  her  other  pro 
ductions,  premising  that  the  "  Holidays  Abroad"  leaves  on  our 
mind  the  impression  of  a  woman  of  admirable  temper,  good 
judgment,  a  keen  perception  of  the  comfortable  and  elegant — 
with  a  great  predisposition  to  select  the  best  side  of  a  picture, 
which  she  draws  with  great  power,  contenting  herself  with  a 
bare  reference  to  the  more  unpleasant  features.  This,  while  it 
renders  her  books  more  acceptable  to  those  who  seek  for 
amusement  only,  impairs  their  value  considerably  with  those 
who  read  to  reflect.  There  is  likewise  too  little  of  that  personal 
egotism  or  bonhommie  which  attaches  a  reader  to  a  traveller. 
We  hear  nothing  of  her  two  companions.  She  is  also  deficient 
in  the  dramatic  power  which  gives  a  subjective  value  to  the 
author  as  a  friend.  We  accompany  her  without  interest,  and 
part  from  her  without  regret.  We  cannot  help  thinking  this  is 
a  serious  defect  in  that  style  of  writing,  for  however  we  may 
respect  her  judgment  as  a  critic,  we  should  like  at  the  same 
time  to  feel  a  more  glowing  sympathy  with  the  woman.  We 
have  before  remarked  upon  her  partiality  for  the  English,  to  which 
we  can  possibly  have  no  objection  ;  but  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Kirk- 
land  we  have  at  times  a  strong  belief  that  it  partakes  too  much  of 
a  deferential  feeling,  which  was  very  natural  in  the  colonial  „ 
state,  but  somewhat  derogatory  in  a  rival  nation.  We  think 
we  know  enough  of  John  Bull  to  be  convinced  of  this,  that 
nothing  so  entirely  wins  his  esteem,  and  even  affection,  as  to 
stand  up  manfully  to  your  argument,  whether  it  be  carried  on 
with  blows  or  words,  and  if  it  be  possible,  he  will  honor  and 
love  you  all  the  more  for  beating  him. 

Mrs.  Kirkland  occasionally  has  passages  which  are  perfect 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  345 

specimens  of  careful  and  fortunate  composition ;  in  general  her 
style  is  natural,  seldom  rising  into  eloquence  ;  there  is  a  simpli 
city,  however,  about  all  her  writings  which  impresses  the  reader 
very  favorably.  An  author  should  bear  in  mind  that  every 
word  has  a  certain  value,  just  as  a  figure,  and  that,  as  in  nume 
rals,  it  has  its  importance  more  from  its  relative  position  than 
from  its  abstract  or  individual  meaning. 

Mrs.  Kirkland's  "  New  Home ;  Who  '11  Follow  ?"  is  a  vivid 
and  complete  sketch  of  real  life.  It  is  a  singular  and  con 
vincing  proof  how  a  woman  of  genius,  using  simple,  unadul 
terated  English,  can  surpass  a  clever  artificial  writer,  with  all 
his  cockneyisms,  grammatical  distortions,  and  elaborate  word- 
painting. 

Let  our  readers  take  the  following  account  of  a  breakfast  in 
the  "  openings  :" 

"  She  soon  after  disappeared  behind  one  of  the  white  screens  I 
have  mentioned,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  emerged  in  a  dif 
ferent  dress.  Then  taking  down  the  comb  I  have  hinted  at,  as  ex 
alted  to  a  juxtaposition  with  the  spoons,  she  seated  herself  opposite 
to  me,  unbound  her  very  abundant  brown  tresses,  and  proceeded 
to  comb  them  with  great  deliberateness ;  occasionally  speermg  a 
question  at  me,  or  bidding  Miss  Irene  (pronounced  Ireen)  '  mind 
the  bread.'  When  she  had  finished,  Miss  Irene  took  the  comb  and 
went  through  the  same  exercise,  and  both  scattered  the  loose  hairs 
on  the  floor  with  a  coolness  that  made  me  shudder  when  I  thought 
of  my  dinner,  which  had  become,  by  means  of  the  morning's  ram 
ble,  a  subject  of  peculiar  interest.  A  little  iron  '  wash-dish,'  such 
as  I  had  seen  in  the  morning,  was  now  produced ;  the  young  lady 
vanished — re-appeared  in  a  scarlet  Circassian  dress,  and  more  combs 
in  her  hair  than  would  dress  a  belle  for  the  court  of  St.  James  ; 


346  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

and  forthwith  both  mother  and  daughter  proceeded  to  set  the  table 
for  dinner. 

"  The  hot  bread  was  cut  into  huge  slices,  several  bowls  of  milk 
were  disposed  about  the  board,  a  pint  bowl  of  yellow  pickles,  an 
other  of  apple  sauce,  and  a  third  containing  mashed  potatoes,  took 
their  appropriate  stations,  and  a  dish  of  cold  fried  pork  was 
brought  out  from  some  recess,  heated  and  re-dished,  when  Miss 
Irene  proceeded  to  blow  the  horn. 

"  The  sound  seemed  almost  as  magical  in  its  effects  as  the  whis 
tle  of  Roderick  Dim  ;  for,  solitary  as  the  whole  neighborhood  had 
appeared  to  me  in  the  morning,  not  many  moments  elapsed  before 
in  came  men  and  boys  enough  to  fill  the.  table  completely.  I  had 
made  sundry  resolutions  not  to  touch  a  mouthful ;  but  I  confess  I 
felt  somewhat  mortified  when  I  found  there  was  no  opportunity  to 
refuse. 

"  After  the  'wash-dish'  had  been  used  in  turn,  and  various  hand 
kerchiefs  had  performed,  not  for  that  occasion  only,  the  part  of 
towels,  the  fords  of  creation  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  and 
fairly  demolished  in  grave  silence  every  eatable  thing  on  it.  Then, 
as  each  one  finished,  he  arose  and  walked  off,  till  no  one  remained 
of  all  this  goodly  company  but  the  red-faced,  heavy-eyed  master  of 
the  house.  This  personage  used  his  privilege  by  asking  me  five 
hundred  questions,  as  to  my  birth,  parentage,  and  education ;  my 
opinion  of  Michigan,  my  husband's  plans  and  prospects,  business 
arid  resources ;  and  then  said, '  he  guessed  he  must  be  off.' " 

We   may  also  mention  that  the  history  of  Mrs.  Danforth  is 
tolft  in  a  manner  which  is  nature's  truth  ;  the  whole  scene  is 
.  vividly  brought  before  us,  and  we    know  at    once    a    shrewd 
mind  is  at  work. 

The  nakedness  with  which  nature  reveals  itself  in  these  re 
gions  is  amusingly  told : 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  347 

"  To  be  sure,  I  had  one  damsel  who  crammed  herself  almost  to 
suffocation  with  sweetmeats  and  other  tilings  which  she  esteemed 
very  nice ;  and  ate  up  her  own  pies  and  cake,  to  the  exclusion  of 
those  for  whom  they  were  intended :  who  would  put  her  head  in 
at  a  door,  with — '  Miss  Clavers,  did  you  holler !  I  thought  I  heered 
a  yell." 

"  And  another  who  was  highly  offended  because  room  was  not 
made  for  her  at  table  with  guests  from  the  city,  and  that  her  com 
pany  was  not  requested  for  tea  visits.  And  this  latter  high-born 
damsel  sent  in  from  the  kitchen  a  circumstantial  account  in  writ 
ing,  of  the  instances  wherein  she  considered  herself  aggrieved; 
well  written  it  was,  too,  and  expressed  with  much  naivete,  and 
abundant  respect.  I  answered  it  in  a  way  which  '  turneth  away 
wrath.'  Yet  it  was  not  long  before  this  fiery  spirit  was  aroused 
again,  and  I  was  forced  to  part  with  my  country  belle." 

The  next  scene  is  infinitely  comic  : 

"  The  lady  greeted  me  in  the  usual  style,  with  a  familiar  nod, 
and  seated  herself  at  once  in  a  chair  near  the  door. 

" '  Well,  how  do  you  like  Michigan  ?' 

"  This  question  received  the  most  polite  answer  which  my  con 
science  afforded ;  and  I  asked  the  lady  in  my  turn,  if  she  was  one 
of  my  neighbors  ? 

"  '  Why,  massy,  yes !'  she  replied ;  '  don't  you  know  me  ?  I 
tho't  everybody  know'd  me.  Why,  I  'm  the  school  ma'am,  Simeon 
Jenkins's  sister,  Cleory  Jenkins.' 

"  Thus  introduced,  I  put  all  my  civility  in  requisition  to  entertain 
my  guest,  but  she  seemed  quite  independent,  finding  amusement 
for  herself,  and  asking  questions  on  every  possible  theme. 

"  '  You  're  doing  your  own  work  now,  a'n't  ye  V 


348  MRS.      0.      M,       KIRKLAND. 

"  This  might  not  be  denied ;  and  I  asked  if  she  did  not  know  of 
a  girl  whom  I  might  be  likely  to  get. 

" '  Well,  I  don't  know,  I  'm  looking  for  a  place  where  I  can  board 
and  do  chores  myself.  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time  before  school, 
and  after  I  get  back  ;  and  I  didn't  know  but  I  might  suit'  ye  for  a 
while.' 

"  I  was  pondering  on  this  proffer,  when  the  sallow  damsel  arose 
from  her  seat,  took  a  short  pipe  from  her  bosom  (not '  Pan's  reedy 
pipe,'  reader),  filled  it  with  tobacco,  which  she  carried  in  her  '  work 
pocket,'  and  reseating  herself,  began  to  smoke  with  the  greatest 
gusto,  turning  ever  and  anon  to  spit  at  the  hearth. 

"  Incredible  again  ?  alas,  would  it  were  not  true !  I  have  since 
known  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who  was  attending  a  neighbor's  sick  in 
fant,  smoke  the  live-long  day,  and  take  snuff  besides ;  and  I  can 
vouch  for  it,  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  married  women  in  the 
interior  of  Michigan  use  tobacco  in  some  form,  usually  that  of  the 
odious  pipe. 

"I  took  the  earliest  decent  opportunity  to  decline  the  offered 
help,  telling  the  school-ma'am  plainly,  that  an  inmate  who  smoked 
would  make  the  house  uncomfortable  to  me. 

"  '  Why,  law  !'  said  she,  laughing ;  '  that's  nothing  but  pride 
now :  folks  is  often  too  proud  to  take  comfort.  For  my  part,  I 
couldn't  do  without  my  pipe  to  please  nobody.' " 

The  simple  philosophy  of  the  woods  is  charming,  after  the 
fish-blooded  faith  of  which  the  Bank  of  England  is  the  temple, 
the  directors  the  apostles,  and  merchants  the  priests. 

"  '  Mother  wants  your  sifter,'  said  Miss  lanthe  Howard,  a  young 
lady  of  six  years'  standing,  attired  in  a  tattered  calico,  thickened 
with  dirt;  her  unkempt  locks  straggling  from  under  that  hideous 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 


349 


substitute  for  a  bonnet,  so  universal  in  the  western  country,  a  dirty 
cotton  handkerchief,  which  is  used  ad  nauseam  for  all  sorts  of 
purposes. 

" '  Mother  wants  your  sifter,  and  she  says  she  guesses  you  can 
let  her  have  some  sugar  and  tea,  'cause  you  've  got  plenty.' 

"  This  excellent  reason,  '  'cause  you  Ve  got  plenty,'  is  conclusive 
as  to  sharing  with  your  neighbors.  Whoever  comes  into  Michigan 
with  nothing,  will  be  sure  to  better  his  condition ;  but  woe  to  him  that 
brings  with  him  anything  like  an  appearance  of  abundance,  whether 
of  money  or  mere  household  conveniences.  To  have  them,  and  not 
be  willing  to  share  them  in  some  sort  with  the  whole  community, 
is  an  unpardonable  crime.  You  must  lend  your  best  horse  qui  que 
ce  soil  to  go  ten  miles  over  hill  and  marsh,  in  the  darkest  night, 
for  a  doctor ;  or  your  team  to  travel  twenty  after  a  '  gal ;'  your 
wheel-barrows,  your  shovels,  your  utensils  of  all  sorts,  belong,  not 
to  yourself,  but  to  the  public,  who  do  not  think  it  necessary  even 
to  ask  a  loan,  but  take  it  for  granted.  The  two  saddles  and  bri 
dles  of  Montacute  spend  most  of  their  time  travelling  from  house 
to  house  a-man-back  ;  and  I  have  actually  known  a  stray  martin 
gale  to  be  traced  to  four  dwellings  two  miles  apart,  having  been 
lent  from  one  to  another,  without  a  word  to  the  original  proprietor, 
who  sat  waiting,  not  very  patiently,  to  commence  a  journey." 

Mrs.  Kirkland  does  not  seem  altogether  to  relish  the  joke,  al 
though  she  seems  thoroughly  aware  of  its  comicality.  She 
says : 

"  But  the  cream  of  the  joke  lies  in  the  manner  of  the  thing.  It  is 
so  straight-forward  and  honest,  none  of  your  hypocritical  civility 
and  servile  gratitude  !  Your  true  republican,  when  he  finds  that 

you  possess  anything  which  would  contribute  to  his  convenience, 

15* 


350  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

walks  in  with, '  Are  you  going  to  use  your  horses  to-day  T  if  horses 
happen  to  be  the  thing  he  needs. 

"  '  Yes,  I  shall  probably  want  them.' 

"  '  O,  well ;  if  you  want  them 1  was  thinking  to  get  'em  to 

go  up  north  a  piece.' 

"  Or  perhaps  the  desired  article  comes  within  the  female  depart 
ment. 

" '  Mother  wants  to  get  some  butter :  that  'ere  butter  you  bought 
of  Miss  Barton  this  mornin.' 

"  And  away  goes  your  golden  store,  to  be  repaid  perhaps  with 
some  cheesy,  greasy  stuff,  brought  in  a  dirty  pail,  with,  '  Here  's 
your  butter !' 

"A  girl  came  in  to  borrow  a  'wash-dish,'  'because  we  've  got 
company.'  Presently  she  came  back  :  '  Mother  says  you  've  forgot 
to  send  a  towel.' 

" '  The  pen  and  ink,  and  a  sheet  o'  paper  and  a  wafer,'  is  no 
unusual  request ;  and  when  the  pen  is  returned,  you  are  generally 
informed  that  you  sent '  an  awful  bad  pen.' 

"  I  have  been  frequently  reminded  of  one  of  Johnson's  humorous 
sketches.  A  man  returning  a  broken  wheel-barrow  to  a  Quaker, 
with,  '  Here'  I  've  broke  your  rotten  wheel-barrow  usin'  on  't.  I 
wish  you  'd  get  it  mended  right  off,  'cause  I  want  to  borrow  it 
again  this  afternoon.'  The  Quaker  is  made  to  reply,  '  Friend,  it 
shall  be  done :'  and  I  wished  I  possessed  more  of  his  spirit." 

We  are  afraid  our  quotations  are  growing  upon  us,  but  we 
cannot  resist  copying  the  following  scene.  Of  a  truth,  America 
has  no  more  comic  pencil  than  that  wielded  by  the  fair  hand  of 
Mary  Cl avers. 

"  He  is  quite  an  old  settler,  came  in  four  years  ago,  bringing 
with  him  a  wife  who  is  to  him  as  vinegar-bottle  to  oil  cruet,  or  as 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  351 

mustard  to  the  sugar  which  is  used  to  soften  its  biting  qualities. 
Mrs.  Doubledayhas  the  sharpest  eyes,  the  sharpest  nose,  the  sharp 
est  tongue,  the  sharpest  elbows,  and  above  all,  the  sharpest  voice 
that  ever  'penetrated  the  interior'  of  Michigan.  She  has  a  tall, 
straight,  bony  figure,  in  contour  somewhat  resembling  two  hard- 
oak  planks  fastened  together  and  stood  on  end  ;  and,  strange  to 
say !  she  was  full  five-and-thirty  when  her  mature  graces  attracted 
the  eye  and  won  the  affections  of  the  worthy  Philo.  What  eclipse 
had  come  over  Mr.  Doubleday's  usual  sagacity  when  he  made 
choice  of  his  Polly,  I  am  sure  I  never  could  guess ;  but  he  is  cer 
tainly  the  only  man  in  the  wide  world  who  could  possibly  have 
lived  with  her ;  and  he  makes  her  a  most  excellent  husband. 

"  She  is  possessed  with  a  neat  devil ;  I  have  known  many  such 
cases  ;  her  floor  is  scoured  every  night,  after  all  are  in  bed,  by  the 
unlucky  scrubber,  Betsey,  the  maid  of  all  work  ;  and  woe  to  the 
unfortunate  '  indifiddle,'  as  neighbor  Jenkins  says,  who  first  sets 
dirty  boot  on  it  in  the  morning.  If  men  come  in  to  talk  over  road 
business,  for  Philo  is  much  sought  when  'the  public'  has  any  work 
to  do ;  or  school-business,  for  that  being  very  troublesome,  and 
quite  devoid  of  profit,  is  often  conferred  upon  Philo — Mrs.  Double- 
day  makes  twenty  errands  into  the  room,  expressing  in  her  visage 
all  the  force  of  Mrs.  Raddle's  inquiry,  '  Is  them  wretches  going  V 
And  when  at  length  their  backs  are  turned,  out  comes  the  bottled 
vengeance.  The  sharp  eyes,  tongue,  elbow,  and  voice,  are  all  in 
instant  requisition. 

" '  Fetch  the  broom,  Betsey  !  and  the  scrub-broom,  Betsey !  and 
the  mop,  and  that  'ere  dish  of  soap,  Betsey :  nnd  why  on  earth 
didn't  you  bring  some  ashes?  You  didn't  expect  to  clean  such  a 
floor  as  this  without  ashes,  did  you  ?' — '  What  time  are  you  going 
to  have  dinner,  my  dear?'  says  the  imperturbable  Philo;  who  is 
getting  ready  to  go  out. 


352  MRS.      C.      M.       KIRKLAND. 

" '  Dinner  !  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know !  there's  no  time  to  cook  din 
ner  in  this  house  !  nothing  but  slave,  slave,  slave,  from  morning  till 
night,  cleaning  up  after  a  set  of  nasty,  dirty,  &c.  &c.  '  Phew,' 
says  Mr.  Doubleday,  looking  at  his  fuming  helpmate  with  a  calm 
smile, '  it  '11  all  rub  out  when  it 's  dry,  if  you  '11  only  let  it  alone.' 

" '  Yes,  yes ;  and  it  would  be  plenty  clean  enough  for  you  if 
there  had  been  forty  horses  in  here.' " 

But  the  crowning  joke  of  borrowing  is  contained  in  the  fol 
lowing  request : 

"  We  were  in  deep  consultation  one  morning  on  some  important 
point  touching  the  well-being  of  this  sole  object  of  Mrs.  Double- 
day's  thoughts  and  dreams,  when  the  very  same  little  lanthe  How 
ard,  dirty  as  ever,  presented  herself.  She  sat  down  and  stared 
awhile  without  speaking,  a  T  ordinaire, ;  and  then  informed  us  that 
her  mother  '  wanted  Miss  Doubleday  to  let  her  have  her  baby  for  a 

little  while,  'cause  Benny's  mouth  's  so  sore,  that' but  she  had 

no  time  to  finish  the  sentence. 

" '  LEND  MY  BABY  ! ! !' — and  her  utterance  failed." 

It  reminds  us  of  an  indignant  message  once  sent  by  a  loving 
papa,  who  was  very  fond  of  his  firstborn.  Coming  home  from 
store  one  evening  in  full  expectation  of  nursing  his  darling  pro 
duction,  he  was  annoyed  to  find  that  some  young  ladies,  next 
door,  had  borrowed  it  to  exhibit  to  some  of  their  friends.  As  this 
had  frequently  happened,  he  sent  for  it  back  and  desired  his 
servant  would  say:  "That  Mr.  Billings  requested  the  young 
ladies  would  get  a  baby  of  their  own,  and  not  borrow  his  in 
future !" 

From  this  specimen  of  Michigan  manners,  so  vividly  given, 


MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND.  353 

we  come  to  a  tale  charmingly  told.  We  have  seldom  met 
with  a  romance  so  Arcadian  as  that  of  Cora  Mansfeld.  As  the 
young  ladies  would  say  :  "  It  is  a  love  of  a  tale." 

Nor  is  Mrs.  Kirkland  behind  in  a  knowledge  of  what  consti 
tutes  a  patriot.  Her  description  is  so  graphic  that  we  cannot 
resist  the  temptation  to  enrich  our  pages  with  it. 

"  From  this  auspicious  commencement  may  be  dated  Mr.  Jen 
kins's  glowing  desire  to  serve  the  public.  Each  successive  elec 
tion-day  saw  him  at  his  post.  From  eggs  he  advanced  to  pies, 
from  pies  to  almanacs,  whiskey,  powder  and  shot,  foot-balls,  play 
ing-cards,  and  at  length,  for  ambition  ever  '  did  grow  with  what  it 
fed  on,'  he  brought  into  the  field  a  large  turkey,  which  was  tied  to 
a  post  and  stoned  to  death  at  twenty-five  cents  a  throw.  By  this 
time  the  still  youthful  aspirant  had  become  quite  the  man  of  the 
world ;  could  smoke  twenty-four  cigars  per  diem,  if  anybody  else 
would  pay  for  them  ;  play  cards  in  old  Hurler's  shop  from  noon 
till  day-break,  and  rise  winner;  and  all  this  with  suitable  trim 
mings  of  gin  and  hard  words.  But  he  never  lost  sight  of  the  main- 
chance.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  serve  his  country,  and  he 
was  all  this  time  convincing  his  fellow-citizens  of  the  disinterested 
purity  of  his  sentiments." 

We  strongly  incline  to  the  belief  that  Mrs.  Kirkland  would 
excel  in  a  romance  of  real  life,  laying  the  scene  in  the  present 
times.  Her  eye  is  keen  and  retentive  ;  her  style  infinitely 
superior  to  Thackeray  or  Dickens  ;  and  if  she  be  somewhat  defi 
cient  in  imagination,  let  her  reflect  how  wonderfully  the  latter 
has  managed  without  that  rare  faculty.  That  she  has  inven 
tion  we  feel  assured,  although  she  has  not  yet  given  her  atten 
tion  to  works  which  favor  its  development.  She  has  admirable 


354  MRS.      C.      M.      KIRKLAND. 

good  sense  ;  a  true  womanly  taste,  without  any  sickly,  "  fine- 
lady  sentimentalism ;"  and  that  instinct — almost  as  rare  a 
gift  as  genius — which  counsels  how  far  she  can  proceed  in  the 
coloring  of  a  fact  without  trenching  on  the  realm  of  caricature. 
What  bombast  is  in  poetry — distortion  in  sculpture  and  paint 
ing — ranting  in  elocution — buffoonery  in  acting — quackery  in 
medicine — charlatanism  in  politics — even  so  caricature  is  in 
writing.  It  resembles  genius  just  as  the  monkey  resembles 
man  ! — not  a  likeness,  but  a  living  caricature. 

Our  limits  will  not  allow  us  a  further  examination  of  her 
other  writings.  They  display  the  same  merits  and  defects. 
Her  "Forest  Life"  has  some  beautiful  pieces  of  description, 
both  of  men  and  nature.  There  is  a  health  about  her  produc 
tions  which  gives  promise  of  a  long  life. 


JARED      SPARKS.  355 


JARED    SPARKS. 


IT  is  a  peculiar  fact  in  the  literature  of  America  that  while 
deficient  in  poetical  genius,  she  boasts  three  historians  not  un 
worthy  to  be  matched  with  the  greatest  of  their  contemporaries. 
This  is  no  new  opinion,  for  it  has  been  remarked  by  an  eminent 
authority  in  England  that  Bancroft,  Prescott,  and  Jared  Sparks, 
are  among  the  first  writers  of  the  age.  We  have  endeavored 
to  justify  this  assertion  in  our  review  of  Prescott's  works.  We 
now  proceed  to  a  consideration  of  the  historical  claims  of  the 
author  of  "The  Life  of  Washington/'  and  in  our  next  shall 
devote  part  of  our  space  to  Mr.  Bancroft's  writings.  We  must 
not  forget  that  the  latter  has  had  advantages  not  extended  to 
his  brother  historians. 

As  we  have  in  a  previous  part  of  this  volume  explained 
somewhat  our  theory  of  the  manner  in  which  History  should 
be  written,  we  shall  at  once  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  Mr. 
Sparks's  labors.  Biography  and  history  differ  materially  in 
one  respect,  viz.  the  spirit  in  which  they  should  be  written. 
The  biographer  should  have  a  certain  love  for  his  hero,  a  kind 
of  household  feeling  ;  but  the  historian  should  sit  like  Jove  on 


356  JARED      SPARKS. 

Olympus,  out  of  the  turmoil  of  the  conflict,  and  above  the  dis 
turbing  influence  of  those  clouds  which  distort  and  interrupt 
"  the  vision,  and  the  faculty  divine1'  of  truly  judging  of  events. 
It  is  of  course  understood,  that  while  we  expect  the  biographer 
to  take  a  personal  interest  in  the  subject  of  his  memoir,  we  do 
not  wish  him  to  become  either  the  apologist  of  his  errors  or  the 
propagator  of  his  opinions ;  we  only  require  a  generous  sympa 
thy  with  the  great  objects  of  his  life,  and  a  forbearing  judgment 
when  he  goes  astray.  There  are  certain  grand  elements  in  our 
nature  which  are  far  removed  from  the  sphere  of  political  and 
religious  bigotries,  and  these  are  so  broadly  marked  as  to  ren 
der  an  offence  against  them  palpable  to  all.  This  is  the  only 
basis  on  which  one  man  can  condemn  another.  The  elements 
we  mean  are  those  comprehended  in  the  pure  humanity  of  man. 
A  man  has  a  perfect  right  to  be  a  republican  or  a  monarchist ; 
to  be  of  any  religion  his  conscience  dictates.  He  is  lord  and 
master  of  his  creed  and  opinion.  If  he  acts  consistently  with 
these  rules  of  faith,  none  dare  blame  him  ;  but  when  he  violates 
truth,  honor,  humanity,  purity,  then  he  comes  under  the  just 
condemnation  of  his  fellow  man  ;  he  puts  himself  out  of  the 
human  family  when  he  becomes  cruel,  unjust,  false,  or  even 
ungenerous. 

In  history  the  narrator  should  regard  the  great  law  of  pro 
gress.  This  should  be  the  compass  by  which  he  steers  his 
course.  He  should  look  at  an  event  not  so  much  by  itself  as  in 
conjunction  with  others.  In  the  most  successful  campaign  all 
is  not  victory  ;  many  a  step  backward,  apparently,  may  be  the 
forerunner  of  a  permanent  advance  ;  the  sum  total  must  be 
regarded,  and  not  isolated  items  "  in  the  great  account."  Now 


J  ARED      SPARKS.  357 

Mr.  Sparks  has,  in  his  writings,  combined  the  excellences  of 
both  systems,  and  while  he  has  written  of  his  hero  with  a 
deep  feeling  of  appreciation,  lie  has  likewise  taken  into  con 
sideration  his  historical  value.  In  his  life  of  the  great  founder 
of  this  republic,  he  has  avoided  the  common  error  of  considering 
George  Washington  as  a  Fourth  of  July  Orator,  and  treated 
him  as  a  lover  of  human  freedom,  not  an  actor  surrounded  with 
drums,  trumpets,  and  penny  crackers,  but  a  lofty-minded  man, 
armed  with  the  noblest  attributes  of  the  patriot  hero.  Sparks 
is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  have  presented  Washington  in 
that  pure  simplicity  of  character  which  renders  him  one  of 
the  greatest  men  that  have  ever  been  known  to  their  fellow 
creatures.  We  always  apply  involuntarily  to  him  these  lines 
of  Wordsworth  on  Milton : 

"  His  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ! 
He  had  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free ; 
So  did  he  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness,  and  yet  his  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  itself  did  lay  !" 

It  is  somewhat  out  of  time  here,  but  we  have  thought  that 
the  picture  presented  by  Washington  retiring  from  the  arduous 
struggle  of  having  achieved  his  country's  freedom,  and  then 
returning  to  his  farm,  resuming  all  his  old  labors,  is  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  human  gallery,  infinitely  distancing  the  hacknied 
example  of  Cincinnatus  to  which  it  has  been  so  often  com 
pared.  When  the  difference  of  times  and  manners  is  taken 
into  account,  there  is  little  comparison  between  them. 

There  is  also  another  light  in  which  Mr.  Sparks  may  claim 


358  JARED      SPARKS. 

distinguished  notice,  and  that  is  the  selection  of  his  subjects. 
In  this  particular  he  is  infinitely  more  national  than  either  Ban 
croft  or  Prescott.  He  is  truly  the  American  biographical  his 
torian  ;  as  we  said  before,  he  combines  the  two  systems.  His 
Life  of  Washington  is  a  great  historical  picture,  where  the 
national  events  of  the  chief  actor's  life  are  so  admirably 
grouped  that  he  seems,  in  his  natural  position,  just  as  in  a 
drama,  where  the  history  moves  around  the  man,  as  in  the 
Wallenstein  of  Schiller,  and  the  "Richard  the  Third  of 
Shakspeare. 

It  perhaps  requires  a  more  philosophical  mind  to  write  his 
tory  properly,  and  a  more  dramatic  one  for  biography.  In  the 
former  so  much  more  must  be  considered,  so  many  more  per 
sons  sketched,  their  relative  positions  examined,  their  impor 
tance  weighed,  with  no  undue  influence  given  to  any.  The 
comprehensiveness  and  nicety  of  this  great  labor  can  senrcely 
be  overestimated  ;  it  requires  the  possession  of  a  very  rare  mind, 
for  how  seldom  is  it  possible  to  weigh  a  ton  and  an  ounce  in 
the  same  scales,  and  yet  the  historian  should  be  able  to  esti 
mate  the  nation  and  the  man  ! 

In  the  Life  of  Franklin  we  have  another  proof  of  Mr. 
Spavks's  fitness  for  the  work  he  has  chosen.  While  in  that  of 
Washington  we  had  a  picture  of  the  harmonious  union  of  the 
patriot,  warrior,  and  statesman,  formed  upon  the  only  sure  basis 
of  the  Christian  gentleman,  we  have,  in  the  biography  of  the 
great  printer,  as  admirable  a  likeness  of  the  patriot  philosopher 
combined  with  the  legislator.  What  one  did  from  loftiness  of 
soul  the  other  did  from  a  love  of  utility.  One  looked  at  his 
work  with  the  serene  principle  of  duty,  the  other  with  the  dis- 


JARED      SPARKS.  359 

passionate  eye  of  practical  philosophy.  Both  had  the  good  of 
their  country  as  their  leading  motive;  but  one  acted  more  from 
the  heart,  and  the  other  from  the  head.  Washington's  actions 
sprang  from  impulse,  the  other's  from  reflection.  Both  were 
equally  inflexible ;  one  from  the  integrity  of  his  heart,  the 
other  from  the  soundness  of  his  head.  In  drawing  this  parallel 
let  it  not  for  an  instant  be  understood  that  we  deny  a  head  to 
Washington  or  a  heart  to  Franklin.  We  only  point  out  this 
distinction  as  the  governing  principle  of  their  conduct.  One 
said,  I  feel  I  ought  to  do  it ;  the  other  said,  I  think  I  will. 

It  is  in  this  identity  with  his  subject  that  Mr.  Sparks  is  the 
unrivalled  head  of  American  biography  ;  indeed,  we  do  not 
know  of  any  who  is  superior  to  him  in  the  literature  of  England. 
Some  biographers,  when  they  write  the  life  of  a  hero,  forget 
Columbus  was  the  grandest  of  discoverers,  by  the  most  magni 
ficent  enthusiasm  that  ever  stirred  the  human  imagination,  and 
in  like  manner  transmogrify  Mahomet  into  a  tame  adventurer. 
The  truth  is,  these  wonderful  men  were  the  embodiments  and 
exponents  of  the  leading  feature  of  the  age  they  lived  in,  and 
so  tar  from  creating  the  storm,  they  merely  rode  upon  it  as  the 
chief  objects.  Some  lean  to  the  belief  that  the  man  makes  the 
epoch  ;  others  that  the  epoch  makes  the  man.  Possibly  the 
truth  may  lie  between  in  this,  as  in  many  other  things,  and  the 
fact  prove  they  were  made  for  each  other.  Doubtless,  when  a 
vague  idea  is  floating  in  the  imaginations  of  men,  some  one 
more  charged  with  the  spirit  of  that  particular  thought  may 
grasp  it,  and  become  the  conductor  of  that  electric  shock  which 
is  to  shatter  the  tottering  superstitions  of  the  world. 

It  no  doubt  sometimes  occurs  that  men  who  have  carried  out 


360  JARED      SPARKS. 

a  theory  to  its  remotest  practice,  would  have  started  aghast  had 
the  ultimate  result  been  suddenly  presented  to  their  "  mind's 
eye."  Like  John  Gilpin,  they  have  been  carried  away  by  their 
steed,  and  compelled  by  the  brute  force  of  a  popular  revolution 
to  dine  at  Ware,  when  they  only  set  out  to  spend  a  day  at 
Edmonton,  with  their  wife,  some  favorite  theory.  However 
homely  this  illustration  may  be,  it  has  been  forced  upon  us  by 
a  close  study  of  the  characters  of  many  of  the  most  celebrated 
disturbers  of  the  human  race.  A  poet  one  day  called  these 
men  human  yeast. 

It  may,  however,  possibly  happen  that  they  themselves 
become  quickened  with  the  spirit  of  progress  as  they  ride  on  ; 
and  as  the  path  widens,  future  objects  may  present  themselves 
as  the  necessary  consequence  of  their  first  advance.  This 
should  be  always  borne  in  mind  when  we  feel  disposed  to  blame 
the  extreme  lengths  to  which  some  of  the  most  celebrated  men 
have  been  hurried  by  the  force  of  circumstance. 

Few  men  deserve  more  consideration  in  this  respect  than 
Napoleon.  If  there  was  ever  a  man  justified  by  the  necessities 
of  his  position,  it  was  the  great  Emperor  of  the  French.  Many 
are  inclined  to  blame  his  pertinacious  hatred  to  England, 
and  to  sagely  conclude  that  had  he  confined  his  ambition  to 
reasonable  bounds,  he  would  have  lived  and  died  the  ruler  of 
France.  This  would  have  been  true  had  Napoleon  been  only  a 
great  man  of  the  common-place  order,  but,  unfortunately  for 
himself,  he  was  the  most  original  genius  of  his  age.  He  had, 
therefore,  instincts  which  counselled  him  more  strongly  and  un 
erringly  than  the  concentrated  e very-day  good  sense  of  the 
world.  This  mute  god  revealed  to  him  that  he  was  the  apostle 


JARED      SPARKS.  361 

of  a  creed  which  must  be  spoken  through  his  mouth,  although 
to  his  own  destruction ;  and,  like  the  Pythoness  of  old,  he  had 
no  free  choice  in  the  matter.  The  presentiment  of  a  great  man 
becomes  in  time  invariably  his  superstition,  and  we  offer  the 
constantly  recurring  prediction  of  Napoleon  as  to  the  Omnipo 
tence  of  Destiny,  as  an  illustration  of  our  remark,  and  as  an 
explanation  of  his  own  fate.  There  is  more  grandeur  in  the 
Exile  on  the  Rock  of  St.  Helena  than  in  the  Emperor  on  the 
Throne  of  the  Tuileries ;  and  we  think  that  Napoleon  did 
more  for  human  liberty  when  apparently  the  chained  exile  of 
that  lonely  pinnacle  of  despair,  than  when  he  was  the  diademed 
monarch  of  France. 

Prometheus  in  fetters,  dying  'neath  the  vulture,  speaks  to  the 
world  for  ever  in  the  Greek  of  ^Eschylus.  Jove  himself  is  vul 
garized  and  dwarfed  by  the  sublime  fortitude  of  his  victim,  the 
Fire  Stealer.  Even  so  does  the  dethroned  and  vanquished  vic 
tor  of  tyranny  speak  to  all  nations  through  the  voice  of 
history. 

Had  Napoleon  died  monarch  of  France,  he  had  been  vul 
garized  for  ever.  He  would  have  been  dumb  to  the  world  of 

O 

liberty,  save  through  the  French  tongue ;  and  the  Goddess  of 
Freedom,  we  are  afraid,  will  never  listen  to  that  language.  But 
his  martyrdom  on  the  solitary  rock  gave  him  a  key  to  the  heart 
of  every  Anglo-Saxon,  and  they  took  up  his  mission,  which  was 
to  destroy  the  clay  idol  set  up  by  a  legitimate  Nebuchadnezzar 
for  the  worship  of  the  world.  Thus  their  sympathy  first  enlisted 
them  in  the  cause,  and  since  then  the  great  social  Alcides  has 
cleansed  the  Augean  Stables  of  tyranny  through  the  agency  of 
his  former  foes.  Had  Prometheus  not  been  a  tortured  captive, 


362  JARED      SPARKS. 

JEschylus  had  never  made  him  the  Hero  of  Endurance ;  and 
had  Napoleon  escaped  that  majestic  doom  of  despair — 

"  Dying  death  stiffened  in  that  mute  embrace," 

he  would  only  have  been  a  successful  adventurer,  a  nine  days' 
wonder,  and  the  founder  of  a  race  of  tyrants  who  would  them 
selves  in  time  have  become  legitimate,  and  required  another 
Napoleon  to  overthrow.  Let  the  majestic  shade  of  the  departed 
Corsican  rejoice  over  the  transient  evil  of  the  last  few  years  of 
his  mortal  life,  and  thank  the  "Triple  Fates"  that  he  was 
snatched  from  a  throne  on  which  so  many  fools  and  despots 
had  died,  to  be  placed  on  the  loftiest  pedestal  ever  awarded  to 
a  human  being.  The  truth  of  a  great  creed  is  testified  by  the 
suffering  of  its  founder,  and  not  by  the  success  of  his  earthly 
mission.  While  the  Orescent  of  the  victorious  Mahomet  is 
fading  every  day  from  the  heavens,  the  Cross  of  the  Galilean  is 
rapidly  becoming  the  symbol  of  the  world. 

The  mission  of  Napoleon  is  the  grandest  human  theme  ever 
presented  to  the  imagination  of  a  poet.  We  can  faintly  con 
ceive  how,  in  the  times  to  come,  when  some  future  Milton  pre 
sents  him  in  an  Epic,  or  some  Shakspeare  in  a  dramatic  shape, 
the  admiring  audience  will  look  upon  him  as  belonging  to  a 
nobler  species  than  the  human  race ;  and  how  in  the  solemn 
temple  of  their  souls  they  will  execrate  that  nation  for  whom 
he  died,  in  emancipating  from  the  thraldom  of  the  dancing 
master  and  the  tax-gatherer.  It  may  possibly  bestow  upon 
Great  Britain  the  dignity  of  its  hatred.  While  we  are  on  the 
subject  of  the  two  Prometheuses,  we  may  possibly  be  excused 
by  the  reader  for  preserving  a  remark  of  Browning's.  We  had 


J  ARED      SPARKS.  363 

been  conversing  (seated  on  the  green  hills  of  Surrey,  at  whose 
foot  this  great  poet  resided,  with  his  father,  mother,  and  only 
sister,  before  his  marriage  with  Miss  Barrett)  upon  Napoleon, 
Prometheus,  and  other  eminent  sufferers.  Browning  grew  warm 
on  the  subject,  and  pointed  out  a  curious  passage  of  the  Pro 
metheus  Vinctus,  which  he  said  was  not  only  the  foundation  of 
Napoleon's  creed,  but  also  a  prophecy  or  foreshadow  of  the 
Christian  Trinity. 

This  (the  author  of  Sordello  maintained)  was  a  singular 
proof  of  the  ghostly  or  shadowy  evidence,  which  the  "  cloud  of 
witnesses  "  gave  in  favor  of  these  mysteries. 

We  have  endeavored  by  these  general  remarks  to  give  a 
better  idea  of  the  excellence  of  Mr.  Sparks's  biographies  than  by 
any  extracts  from  his  writings.  Who  could  convey  to  the  be 
holder  the  idea  of  a  forest  by  presenting  an  elaborate  isolated 
tree  ?  Let  this  simile  excuse  our  rather  dealing  in  generalities 
when  we  talk  of  Mr.  Sparks's  biographies.  It  is  very  often  the 
test  of  an  undue  and  unartistic  attention  to  parts,  correspondent 
to  a  neglect  of  the  whole,  when  a  critic  is  enabled  to  present 
the  reader  with  a  convincing  specimen  of  the  genius  of  the  ar 
tist.  This  really  is  the  exact  truth  in  the  present  case.  All  is 
equally  well  finished ;  there  is  nothing  striking  about  a  feature 
or  limb,  but  the  face  or  the  form  is  beautiful.  Who  would 
think  of  cutting  off  a  nose  or  plucking  out  an  eye,  and  present 
ing  these  mutilations  as  convincing  evidences  of  beauty  ?  We 
cannot  help  carrying  on  the  parallel  by  remarking  that  the  very 
isolation  deprives  each  organ  of  sight  and  smell,  and  ignores  at 
the  same  time  the  delights  of  vision  and  perfume.  What  be- 


364  JARED      SPARKS. 

comes  of  the  beauty  of  a  landscape  or  a  lady,  or  the  perfume  of 
a  hay -field  or  a  rose  ? 

These  remarks  apply  the  more  especially  to  the  author  now 

under   review,  for   there  is  a  symmetrical  proportion  about  all 

his  works  which  evidences  the  artist.     We  could  instance  many 

writers   who  elaborate  their  sentences   more    thoroughly,  and 

present  far  more  finished  and  striking  passages  for  the  reader's 

special  attention  ;  but  we  know  few  authors  who  preserve  so 

much  proportion  in  their  figures,  and  so  much  propriety  in  the 

grouping.     The  attention  and  labor  are  equally  distributed,  and 

it  is  only  when  the  entire  picture  is  viewed  that  the  full  merit 

of  the  painter  is  recognised ;  then  all  examination  of  detail  is 

forgotten  in  admiration  of  the  tout  ensemble.     We  remember 

a  curious  fact,  related  by  a  celebrated  portrait  painter,  which 

confirmed  this   opinion  strongly.     He  selected  from  the  most 

celebrated  beauties  of  the  day  the  most  perfect  feature  of  each 

face,  and  exhausted  his  skill  in  forming  them  into  one  which 

he  naturally  thought  would  be  the  perfection  of  loveliness :  he 

was  disappointed  to  find   the  result  a  decided  common-place, 

meaningless  countenance,  devoid  of  either  grace  or  expression, 

This  is  only  what  he  might  have  expected :  beauty  is  harmony 

or  congruity  ;  his  model  portrait  was  an  incongruity. 

Our  space  will  not  allow  us  to  give  sufficient  quotations  from 
Mr.  Sparks  to  illustrate  our  assertion ;  indeed,  as  we  said  be 
fore,  it  would  be  unjust  to  do  so.  He  has  no  pet  passages,  nc 
short  episodes,  which  shine  out  from  the  rest,  and  placed  there 
as  though  purposely  for  samples — all  is  consistent  and  symme 
trical.  A  poet  or  a  traveller  abounds  with  passages  which  car 


JARED      SPARKS.  365 

I  detached  without  any  loss  of  vitality  or  beauty ;  but  in  a 
stained  work,  like  the  Biographies  of  Washington  and  Frank- 
i,  it  would  be  as  absurd  to  select  occasional  sentences  to  con- 
ftce  a  doubting  reader,  as  to  present  a  bucket  of  sea-water  in 
der  to  convey  a  notion  of  the  Atlantic  1 


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